Snuffing Out the Comet
by BigBadger
Summary: A Sister of Sigmar loses her charge to forces of evil. Left alone amidst the dead, she must cope with the worst of afflictions.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Just a few things quickly. This story will obviously include some made-up things, like characters and places. This is intentional, and I will try my best to make sure that everything makes sense in the WHF world (not Age of Sigmar!** **)Also, my knowledge of the lore is rusty at best, so if anything leaps out as being incorrect, feel free to tell me.**

 **Finally, I have no idea how long this will be or where it will go, so we'll see. For now, R/R and enjoy.**

The old beggar coughed and wheezed, shaking her small tin container with a single skeletal hand. There was no satisfying jingle of coins tapping together, for there were no coins to do so. She sighed in resignation, looking up only when the next person approached the door. She pushed the container forward and let it spin along the dirt, stopping as it hit the edge of the stone path. She didn't expect anything – the last half-dozen people, who had approached this bar to drink away the few hours they had that were free of toil, had spared nothing for her, and as the hard steel boots, tucked behind a chain skirt, advanced passed her, she feared that yet another person would forsake her.

The warrior-woman stopped, peeling open a leather bag and letting a hand slip inside it. She pulled out a handful of coins and poured them down, and spoke with a young, tender voice:

"Blessings of Sigmar upon you, stranger." The beggar couldn't see the woman's face – even when she did spare a glance, it was concealed by a hood – but she imagined that she was gazing up when she spoke again: "You'll need it soon."

The beggar bashed her dry lips together, trying to thank the maiden for her generosity, but before she could finish standing up the girl was gone and the door to the tavern was sliding shut once more.

A man with a build of bulk and a stern expression approached her with crossed arms as she caught her bearings. He reached up and plucked a steaming pipe from his lips.

"Who goes there? We charge for the presence, 'specially with all that's going on." The man spoke.

"For the presence?"

"Aye, madame. With that ol' comet in the air and all the horror in the streets, this 'ere shelter and warmth is a luxury, you see. And luxuries cost."

"That won't be necessary, sir, I am just picking someone up. I am Sister Sofie." As she spoke the man nodded slightly in recognition.

"Aye, then. They're on the table at the back. Rest've us'll chant ya name for clearin' those annoying brats."

She smiled sweetly. "Well, the Sisters of Sigmar will always help those in need."

The people around the table at the back seemed to stand out compared to the others. Like the rest, these people were residents of the city. But while the rest preferred to hide their grief and despair with drink and idle chatter, these five didn't. The three children shared the same ghostly expression, that of fright even if they didn't understand it's cause. The woman sat on the other side of the table was busy trying to prepare the children for departure, but the man was free to turn and greet the Sister as she approached.

"My lady, bless you for doing this, for a humble merchant and his family." He smiled, but it wavered weakly. He reached into his pocket almost habitually and brought forth a purse full of gold. The sister brushed it off with a hand.

"We don't do it for money, sir. Come quickly, the wagon is soon to leave and we haven't much time." She let her eyes loose as she spoke, and already some glares of resentment were reaching her from the rest of the tavern. In this city, classes were but a façade. That didn't stop the better-off of society from being the first to the firing line when hardship befell the population. This definitely counted as hardship, the sister knew that much, and she helped the merchant to stand almost with a tug.

It took until the last of the party reached the door for someone to face them. It was a man in soldier's garb, showing off the white-and-blue checked heraldry of Middenland which was stained with drink and phlegm. He stumbled over and muttered inaudibly before tackling the merchant through the doorway. The woman and children outside yelled in horror as the soldier began to pin down the hand that gripped the purse. The sister pushed past the bouncer at the door, who let her pass with a grunt before turning away from the scene.

"Help me! You're my escort!" The Merchant seethed at Sofie as the soldier's hand wrapped around his wrist. Another hand landed a blow on his face through a chainmail mitt.

But he didn't have to ask. As soon as the soldier hurt her charge, she brought forth a mace of stainless steel and brought it down hard on his back, but with enough control not to land a debilitating blow. He fell sprawling, howling in pain and rocking from side-to-side on the road. Sofie stood over him, and being a Sister did what she was always told to do. She offered him a hand with the words: "Come on. We've enough enemies in this world without fighting each other."

The soldier stood wearily, his legs wobbling with the weakening influence of mead in his belly. Brushed her hand aside, and she offered him a handful of coins from her satchel. They had been ordered to spare coin only for honourable intentions, but the Sister judged that dulling the man's senses such that his imminent death was painless was just enough to pass. He took it, and stood quietly for a few moments.

Then the mead willed him on again, and he whacked her in the jaw. She brought the mace down hard on his head with a yell. This time, when he fell and began to leak red over the side of the path, he did not rise again.

"Sorry about that, sir." She lay a hand on the merchant's shoulder. "We must go."

"Indeed." He spoke with artificial concern, bringing up a forefinger to wipe away a bead of blood that was dripping down the side of Sofie's lip. "Let us go then."

The six figures departed, leaving the Beggar, silent and in the background as always, alone with the corpse. She shook her container again, smiling wide at the satisfying rattle.


	2. Chapter 2

The trio of carts clicked and scraped along the path as they travelled. Surrounding them were four men with handguns that walked alongside them in a loose square, and surrounding these were six others – two Greatswords of Carroburg who had been bribed into service during a moment of drunken weakness, three men armed in no regular manner, and Sister Sofie at the front.

It was dark out, such that none of the guards could see further than a metre or so ahead of them, and the tall oil-lit lanterns that hung like fireflies were the only guiding light they could follow.

"Why didn't we wait 'till mornin'?" One of the soldiers protested, narrowly avoiding getting tripped by a crack in the stone.

"Wait until morning?" A voice laughed from within the central carriage. "Nonsense, we don't know when that comet will hit, you see. We must get out." The soldier grumbled but accepted that answer.

Sofie dropped back, allowing one of the Greatswords to take point, and marched parallel to the Merchant's carriage.

"How long, sir? I must get back to the Monastery. Sister-Superior Heline is holding a service, you see."

"A service?" She could see the silk curtain being drawn back, but not the man who took its place.

"Yes, sir. Purifying the soul, to prepare for the cleansing, sir." She spoke politely, but quickly, as if feeling the pressure of time already.

"We've been travelling for, what, half a day? Not long now, I'd say. A few hours." He suggested. The sister nodded and took her place again.

The trip so far had been uneventful. Whatever he was afraid of – when questioned on it, he would just laugh it off, never giving a full answer – was nowhere to be found. There was no bandit, no crazed servant of chaos, nothing. There was only the clicking of hooves and the stamping of boots, and the cold, still breeze of night.

Except, it wasn't still anymore. She felt it run down her ear and across her cheek, and it frightened her. She didn't know why, but something intuitive made her reach for the mace. Behind her, breathing was getting faster and she heard the clean sliding of a blade leaving its holster.

"Oi, sah. What's out here with us?" One of the soldiers asked – probably the Greatsword; his voice was deep and harsh.

"Nothing, nothing!" The Merchant laughed his usual laugh, but with what stutter of fear that was just too much to contain.

Sofie sighed in frustration, and then felt that rush of air past her again. The light in the lantern curved down parallel to it, and someone behind her screamed suddenly. She turned and felt her heart throbbing.

"By Sigmar, we've got a dead one here!"

She backed up into something cold. It felt like bark. She could see the foremost cart in the light of a lantern. Another rush of air ran past her, towards it, and he rose into the air before careering out of view with a thud.

The rest of her fellows were panicking now, but one-by-one the voices fell silent. With each rush of air another one died, until she was the last one left. She let herself slide down the bark, sitting in the cold dirt. She felt paralyzed, as if the cold was too much for her, but she gathered the strength to slip a hand down infront of her breast and draw forth a necklace, bearing on it a twin-tailed comet. She kissed it, muttering a prayer. If she was about to die, she wanted her spirit to be judged clean.

"Sigmar, bless your humble servant." She gulped as she felt the air rouse into action once again, this time scraping past her ear and along her neck. Her hunter was _right beside her._

"So that in death I am clear of sin," She drew her mace. "And of weakness." She breathed in deeply, yelling out all of her fear as she bolted up and swung with the mace.

Something connected. The crack broke through the night. She laughed in relief and joy, until she realised that she had not heard the tell-tale thump of a collapse. There was only a laugh that carried on after her's died down, one of venom and arrogance. She felt a hand on her breast before flying a metre into the air and a dozen back, slumping against the upturned cart and allowing herself to fall into unconsciousness.

Sister Sofie awoke to the chirping of birds and the gentle streams of sun through trees that one would expect in the early hours, but she didn't feel happiness or warmth. She stood with an unnatural easiness, expecting to feel a searing pain in her back, but that was vacant too. She walked forward without a stumble, and looked around without much difficulty. She didn't feel much of anything at all, except anger and frustration. She had failed for the first time as a Sister of Sigmar, and it felt more toxic than any wound.

One of the carts was led on its side, and she saw a dent shaped like plate-armour behind her, where she had fallen. Another was standing, but still, behind it. And the last was gone entirely.

"Nobleman?" She called out. No answer. She stumbled around the roadside, seeing patches of blood but no bodies.

She began to gather distance from the scene, back in the direction from whence they had come, when she saw one of the guards from the night before. He was sat with his knees tucked up against his chest, against one of the lanterns. His head rocked from side-to-side in a brown capitano cap. She jogged up to him – ignoring the strange lack of feeling where she had been battered – and tapped him on the shoulder.

"Come, come on, sir! We must go!" She yelled. The rocking head stopped before rising slowly. An old face watched her without emotion or response, the ginger curls of its moustache stained with mud. It began to rise, and she took a few paces back to give the man room.

Her delight at not being the sole survivor grew into horror when his legs unfolded and he stood still. His trousers were torn, revealing not skin but bone. He howled deeply, the same howl she had been taught of in the monastery.

Unwilling to leave the man to his fate, she sought to cure him of his undeath – back at the chapel. She punched him in the nose, not to kill but to incapacitate, but watched in horror as his head flew loose of his shoulders and rolled along the side of the road. His body turned to reclaim it even as the Sister, muttering in confusion and horror, turned and ran.

 **A/N – This chapter was a bit short and I had to adjust my plan to make it a suitable length. Feel free to tell me if it ever feels disjointed or like filler. Otherwise, I hope it's a good read.**


	3. Chapter 3

Through the window the town was a dismal sight. Smoke-trails pocketed the sky where the peoples of the land – now consumed by fright and the prospect of death – had turned to a gang mentality, to crime and murder, or worse…

The Sister-Superior could not stomach the thought, so she turned from the window and pulled down her hood. She sat down behind the altar and smoothed out her hair, blonde but slightly greying with age. Turning to one of the sisters who stood interspersed within the chapel, she spoke slowly:

"Bring in the Missionary, please." One of the sisters, a young girl with mahogany skin, nodded and pulled open one of the double-doors. She returned with a figure concealed from ankle to forehead in a modest set of robes. He staggered impishly towards the altar and bowed his head.

"Dear Ventra…" He spoke politely but with a smile; as a representative of Sigmar he saw himself not as her servant, but perhaps as an equal. Maybe even better.

The Superior picked up on the chiding tone, and she let his remark pass by. "Give me your report, Brother Michael. How are things holding up in the city?" She looked down. Being within this chapel, risen high above the slums of wood on this side of the river, there was almost a disconnect between the Sisterhood and those they were meant to serve. _Perhaps that was why Sigmar punishes us now,_ she thought, but drew herself away from it. She couldn't afford to look saddened in front of such a subject.

"The market district has maintained a semblance of order, Dearest." He knew she hated being called that, "no doubt the promise of a little coin over-shadows any threat of death for such a kind."

"So there have been no incursions from Chaos?" Ventra asked with that spike of worry; her voice was two steps ahead of her thoughts. The Missionary waved off her concern.

"Nothing, do not fret. The populace in that quarter – as upper-class as they are – continue as they used to, but with the occasional worried murmur." He sighed reluctantly; clearly that was his good news. "But… the living quarter…"

"What of it?"

"Many have forsaken their old selves and become flagellants, Ventra. They think they are being punished. I have seen them, scowering the streets in twos and threes; barking like dogs. My contacts report they do not just beat themselves – they pick targets on the street and pounce when opportunity permits."

The Superior stroked her face from cheek to chin at the news. It was solemn, but not entirely unexpected; amongst the peasantry and rabble of the town – whom had already consigned themselves to their fates and labelled it 'Mordheim' – an event of such significance would naturally be met by hysteria and panic, she concluded. Indeed, it was only the blessings of Sigmar himself, and a well-understood knowledge of what they used to do and what they would have to start doing that stopped the Sisterhood from collapsing into a similar…

She thought for a moment, looking up to see the missionary stood patiently, rolling his hand over his staff.

 _Disorder_. Yes. That was the right word. Proud of her own correctness, she finally spoke up. "Brother Michael. Head into town and round up these Flagellants. Have them search for any signs of corruption and then set them loose." The Missionary turned and began to waddle off. "And find me that Sister of Sigmar, she has been gone far too long. It is unlike her." She moaned, almost maternally. As the great doors groaned to a close, and light from outside freed the chapel inside of its revealing presence, Ventra fell back to her seat and sighed.

She cared about her Sisters, past all of the formality and piety. Perhaps she cared too much.

Sofie sank down into the seat, taking a sip of water and planting the cup back down onto the table. She had chosen the very same tavern from which she had taken the Merchant purposefully. It was a form of punishment, really; forcing herself to accept her failure. She looked up at the table where she remembered them sat. It was empty. She sighed and let her head sink again.

A few times she had been drawn by the sounds of commotion from outside. She had seen figures passing the windows in mobs, from housewives, to street urchins, to militiamen. They would roar, howl, sing praise to Sigmar, anything to draw their mind away from the apocalypse that was about to befall them. The comet could only have been a few days away now. Sofie had intended to make her way to the Chapel to account for her failings, but something had stopped her. She felt base emotions she had been taught to conceal before that night. She felt selfish, almost. Cowardly.

She stood up in a fit of rage, letting cutlery, plates and mugs roll off of the table and drum against the planked floor. The drive that she had always embraced – that pride of being a Sister – spurred her on suddenly, and she approached the door to investigate the happenings of the outside, ignoring how strangely _weak_ that drive really was.

She let herself get dragged along by a passing group of people like a wave. They were one of many clumps of people that filed out of alleys and down streets, all towards the centre of town. There were men, women, and children here, and she didn't know what they were doing. Perhaps a meeting? They'd need to discuss their next course of action. The best way to ask Him for forgiveness, of course. _But surely,_ she thought, _not_ _ **everyone**_ _will let themselves go quietly into the night…_

She grunted in disgust and drew a pair of eyes from the people shuffling beside her. She let the doubt leave her mind as she followed the crowds to the town hall. People were breaking into a loose horseshoe now, around something she couldn't see. She heard howls of excitement, like school-boys egging on a fight.

Except she saw that, to her horror, that was exactly what the howls were doing. All these people – these men and women and children - they weren't going to a meeting, they were following the call of violence.

What worried her most was that she realised this; how deeply the depravity and _chaos_ had taken hold here, and yet it made her feel… warm. It made her feel at home.

 **A/N: Feel free to R/R**


	4. Chapter 4

The knight swaggered forward and let his visor fall over his eyes. He ran a black gauntlet, decorated in streaks of yellow with the rays of the blazing sun, down to his longsword and drew it from its holster. He looked down at the remains of the last challenger; a stump-like mound sat by an arm and a leg and cringed in disgust at the sight; not of the remains themselves, but of the fact that the one who once owned these limbs, dressed in crude wool as they were, was a peasant.

"Come, then!" He cried into the crowd. "Who will face I, Leon of Altdorf?" He spread both arms and gently spun around, looking each challenger in the eye. He stopped when he was facing one of them, a Sister of Sigmar with plate and a mace. She looked off; her eyes glared back like deep red ink blots and her skin was sapped of the colour of life. "You! Face me, Witch!"

The girl shuffled back, trying to escape deep into the horseshoe crowd, but two figures behind her willed her forwards. She stood, uncertain but scared, like a deer in front of headlights. Then a voice came from somewhere on the concave of the curve, where the crowd grew thickest. It was an old voice, tender but stern. A man adorned with robes walked forwards. The crowd let out a collective gasp, and here and there a few giggles escaped.

"Leave the girl be, **boy**!" The voice spoke again. Leon of Altdorf turned and glared. He held up his sword, but the sudden jolt of head towards whatever response the people of the crowd dare give revealed his embarrassment.

"Old man! I will crush you for this insolence! Take up your weapon and face me now!"

The old man peeled his hood clear of his head. He looked vaguely like an egg; his head was clear of hair and his face, where scruffy silver-grey strands of beard and moustache did not hide it, was laced generously with wrinkles and moles. He let his staff drop to the floor with a clatter and pulled from his waist a large, lavishly-embellished war hammer with the head fashioned into the shape of a comet and the pommel into a sharp point. He readied himself, holding the hammer in front of him with both hands.

The crowd fell silent in expectation. The knight suddenly advanced and brought his sword down towards the missionary's left thigh. He beat the blow aside with his hammer. The crowd howled in surprise and the knight growled in anger.

The old man responded with a feint to the left and then a strike down at Leon of Altdorf's head. He was surprisingly nimble, more perhaps to do with the flow of his movements; he certainly had experience. The knight hadn't readied himself – _'twas just an old man, after all_ – and when the hammer came down he sidestepped messily. The hammer scraped his pauldrons and left a deep gash through it. "You are fast for an elder, servant of Sigmar." He commented.

"Or perhaps you are just slow." The missionary spat back. The insult drove the knight from his kind façade and he yelled out, delivering strike after strike with an unnatural speed. He knocked the hammer from the missionary's grip with a downward slice that tore the man's index and ring fingers with it. The crowd howled in anticipation.

For Sofie, who was stood at the inside of the group, it was an intolerable sight. All of her training and conditioning told her to go and help the old man – For Sigmar's sake, he was a priest – but some lust stopped her. Some guilty desire to see the dual played out in full. She had to stop herself from joining the crowd's chorus as they jeered at every swing of the blade and howled in excitement at every parry.

She couldn't stop thinking about it; the peasants in the crowds cried with such sadistic glee, and she heard one man comment beside her; "He's as fast as lightning, that one!" but she hadn't seen it. She watched the fight closely for the first time since it had begun; saw the knight beating down the old man's defense. She saw the flurry of strikes that were so praised by the crowd, but it seemed slow. It seemed telegraphed. She knew it was not true, of course not – he was a knight of the Blazing Sun – but some nagging, selfish thought chipped away at her; she was _**better**_ than him.

Perhaps it was this smug mockery that willed her into letting the fight play out. She felt superiority she hadn't felt before, what with all the sermons and the appraisal to Sigmar. She saw the missionary land a glancing hit on the knight's knee, sending him staggering. She heard the crowd roar. At last, the dark thought in her head overcame her and she drew forth her mace. She stepped through into the adhoc arena.

The crowd stood in shock. The missionary turned to face her, only to be struck down with a pommel to the temple. He collapsed, clutching his wound. She thought that, in her bloodlust, her senses were playing tricks on her; but she swore she could smell- no, _**taste**_ the blood from here. That only spurred her on.

"Done letting cadavers fight your battles for you then, woman?" He scolded, laughing, "I had best even the playing field." He tore off his helmet and threw it into the crowd. A guttural chorus of laughing erupted from the men in the crowd. It was quickly shushed down. Sofie stood silently.

Leon of Altdorf was a young knight, perhaps only recently uplifted from some position as a squire. He had a strong angular jaw-line. His eyes always gave the impression that he was squinting in displeasure, and he gave that notable look of cockiness that was seductively tempting to maim. Sofie chuckled a little bit; _how convenient,_ she thought.

The boy glared at her laughter in offense, and charged. A dozen voices gasped from Sofie's left, as if the movement was quick, but it wasn't; by the time he had brought his longsword down from overhead, she was a metre away from it. He looked as confused as she did; she'd managed to dash so far without anyone realising. He tore it free of the dirt and blushed in humiliation. She readied herself as he charged, chopping with anger again and again.

She again shocked herself when she brought her mace to intercept each swipe with contemptuous ease. He was so slow, so predictable. His movements seemed sluggish, sloth-like, and melodramatic. She laughed again. She slammed the head of her mace into his knee, after subduing his sword-arm with her free hand.

Leon howled in pain, and the crowd began to cheer once again. They could sense that the fight would be over shortly. She rose her mace again, and in desperation he pushed down his sword-arm with as much force as he could muster.

Sofie pushed back. There was a loud snap. Leon collapsed, howling. Tears streaked from his eyes. Sofie saw him slumped in the dirty, cradling his forearm. His elbow-bone was exposed through punctured plate and his mutilated hand was twitching.

She grunted and looked up at the Missionary. He had retrieved his staff and donned his hood, and he did not appear harmed.

"Do not kill him, Sister of Sigmar." He ordered. She paused and stared at her victim again. He looked up at her in horror. She sheathed her mace. "You have done admirably, Leon. I am sure the surgeon will tend to your wounds." As if on-cue, a bulge formed in the horseshoe as several men advanced and dragged him out of sight.

He swallowed. "That fight has told me all I needed to know, unfortunately." He smiled maliciously. "You come with me." He pointed a finger up at the tip of a spire which hung above the town. The chapel. He lead, and the Sister of Sigmar followed.

 **A/N: Well. First attempt at a prolonged fight-scene. Hope it was enjoyable.**


	5. Chapter 5

The cell that lay beneath the central chapel was not what one may have expected. Its walls were only recently painted with a champagne-beige; there were no visible cracks and no peeling away of wallpaper along the walls as with other prisons. In front of the cross-legged woman, sat in an old and worn rocking chair, there was a china board lavished with blue and purple flowers, on which sat the remains of a meal which she didn't deserve. The whole thing seemed so unlike a prison, as if the facility had never had to be used before.

The other woman, stood on the other side of the cell bars with crossed arms was following Sofie's gaze as she surveyed her new abode. She nodded as if she knew what Sofie was thinking, and given how well the Sister-Superior knew her, that wasn't entirely impossible.

"You are the first prisoner, little Sofie." She spoke with a kindness which sent Sofie aback. She hadn't questioned why she'd been interred, not so much out of politeness as out of a desire to remain blissfully ignorant, and the other Sisters garrisoned here watched her with fear and spite when she had first been taken back here. But Ventra remained as she always had, cool and collected and with a face and tone which could pacify an orc.

"I have done no wrong." She felt anger bubble inside of her, but she knew that the woman in front of her, who had raised her so well, didn't deserve to feel the brunt of it. She forced her voice to sound as humble as expected.

"It is not a matter of what you have done, Sof. It is a matter of what you are." Ventra's voice soothed Sofie to the point where she didn't object. "Michael told us of your feat. Of how you took down one of the Empire's knightly order with no effort."

"I do not understand." She seethed.

"That is perhaps for the better." Ventra declared with a sadness. "You know the story told to you as a girl, of the Sister and the Babe?"

Sofie recalled the story with precision. She had been told it many times; the tale of the Sister who displayed the endless virtue and determination which the Sisters of this region had been built upon. The sister who displayed determination in the slaying of the cursed child of Sylvania, who brought with it the stench of corruption. The sister who, in her virtue and guilt, gave the grieving mother her first-born child without hesitation. The sister who embodied the perfection which Sigmar sought in everyone who called themselves one of his Sisterhood. At least, that's a story that Ventra had told. When asked if it were real or symbolic, she would always tut and say something like; ' _It is what your heart and soul translates it to be'_.

"You told me that tale many times." Sofie spoke quietly. The memories brought about a cheeky smile. "You were told to discipline me, to lash me. Instead you sat me down and told me your stories."

"Some would say that's an even worse punishment." Ventra spoke, smiling with warmth. Her head sank, and when it rose again that smile and warmth had made way for a shaking lip perched from a frown and a cold stillness that set about the room. "But this is not a history lesson, Sof. That story is relevant to you…" Sofie could see her eyes before; beautiful in light of her years, but she brought her hood down further over her head and masked them from the prisoner's sight. Sofie thought she saw a tear. She could, to her surprise, smell the salt in it quite easily.

"Is that so, dear Sister?" She was curious. Some would call it naïve.

"My dear, just as the Sister slew the Baby – for its own sake as well as for those around it – so must we slay you."

It was spoken with the same velvet voice, but the words still hit Sofie like a brick. She was left agape and alone behind her cell when Ventra stood quickly and left, nodding weakly to the guard outside in passing.

The next few weeks were filled with a resigned expectation. Sofie had, since that meeting, agreed with the order for execution entirely; this was the first time she considered that something was wrong with her. That she was corrupt. Given what she had done to the knight of Altdorf, she decided that such accusations. So, each day she would wake up when the Sister battered her cell-bars with a mitten fist and be served some luxurious meal; a well-cooked salmon on one day, a bowl of what looked like caviar the next.

On the second night she requested a parchment, a clay jug full of black ink and a quill. Every day she would sit and write the oaths and prayers of the Sisterhood, from memory, and bore holes out of the wall with a finger to place them in. She would then ask for a nail, and the Sisters – being suspicious – would always request either Michael or Ventra to be present when she put them up. She wanted to show her faith, even in death. She felt entirely at peace.

This continued for a week-or-so, until she woke late at night with a wretched sickness in her stomach. She felt the seeds of doubt when she slept, the desire to break free of her cage – she knew full-well she could do so – and run as far away as she could, into the darkness where she would now fit more comfortably. She imagined it, too, and it gave her guilty pleasure; the cries from behind her, of "Get that girl!" and "Foul beast!", the surge of adrenaline. The blood. Oh, the blood.

It was tearing away at her. She couldn't resist the evil, base urge any-longer.

Luckily, she didn't have to; for on the 9th day of her internment, before the sun had even thought about rising, Ventra walked in blank-faced and a woman in red robes followed, trailing a great sword behind her.


	6. Chapter 6

"Sisters of Sigmar!" The missionary atop the rampart cried out with zeal. A dozen sisters were present at the execution and a dozen pairs of eyes glanced up at him. "This sister, **your** sister, has been accused of joining the hordes of evil, through willingness or neglect, against what we strive to protect!" He paused and raised his palms to the sky, feasting on the hateful jeers of those beneath him.

"Bring her up!" He called. A red-robed woman approached from the end of the courtyard. Behind her was the back of the chapel, above the small room of prison cells, and she marched with a macabre purpose towards the stone-steps, atop which the missionary held his sermon. Ahead of her, Sofie stumbled with head sank, occasionally moving quicker when she felt the point of the sword against her neck. The missionary made way for the two, and the executioner forced her charge over the wooden block that hung in the cold morning air for all to see. They had chosen the early morn, before even the roosters awoke to cry, before any of the workers and peasantry of the town began their monotonous routines, for security; 'Mordheim' was already a boiling pot of tension and underhanded criminality – it was mere days before the comet hit – and if news spread that not even the Sisterhood itself was immune, it would be impossible to contain the panic.

"See this!" He cried again. The sisters below snapped to attention – except for the Sister-Superior, who forced her gaze skyward melancholically. "This is the face of a monster in human form!" He glanced at the executioner, who brought Sofie's face up for inspection. She had noticed it too, before today, but with this public exposure she couldn't pretend it wasn't happening anymore. Her cheeks were concaves where the flesh had worn away. Her bones were pronounced now, skeletal even. She looked like she had been starved, but this confused her; by any standards her dining as a prisoner had been exemplary. Maybe it was Sigmar punishing her.

As if on-cue the Missionary confirmed this: "Our God punishes the wicked with weakness in appearance and spirit! We must prove that we remain virtuous with the sacrifice of this black-sheep from our flock!" He turned his head expectantly at the executioner, who knew exactly what to do. She clutched her great sword in two sweaty palms and hoisted it up into the air. It glimmered brilliantly, in the dull light of a moon which had not yet passed, as if the blade itself was smiling at what it was about to do.

Sofie cocked her head to the side so that her ear was resting on the wooden block. Above her, the executioner's arms were shaking under the strain. The dull hum of the Missionary's sermon slowed to a crawl; she mused that it wasn't just slow for her, either. She pushed her head up and watched the cluster of sisters below with resignation. She was about to die.

That was when she saw something familiar; a blur of black that materialized near a young Oak at the back of the courtyard. It moved, and the familiarity bit at her again, but something was different; where before, nearly a month ago now, it **had** been a mere blur, now she could make it out. It was a humanoid figure in plate as black as night, sprinting at full-pelt towards a young freckled sister ahead of it. The creature had a helmet with plates that bulged from its cheek-bones and met near the edge of its chin in a snake-tongue double-point.

The poor girl in front couldn't even turn before it drew a jagged scimitar from nowhere – a poor weapon for dealing with a prepared soldier, of course, especially one in plate, but perfect for spilling blood. The figure drove it into the back of the Sister's neck and it burst through the other side instantly. The sister gurgled a bit and slumped to her knees, and the sudden passionate rage that Sofie felt allow willed her to raise a hand to meet the falling great sword that should've killed her; it's wielder had faltered after seeing the death of her comrade.

In the time it took Sofie to overpower the executioner and send the great sword spinning off to the right and off of the rampart, three more sisters in the cluster below lay still. The Missionary behind her was seething curses at her and at the mysterious killer even as he backed away down the steps; he wasn't a threat to her, so Sofie sat with her feet hanging down the drop into the courtyard and watched.

The remaining Sisters were trying to group up into a circle, under Ventra's orders, but there were several stragglers and the one in black plate made these three his target. He advanced on the closest to him, sprinting quickly indeed, but Sofie could still track him, so it was tragic when the Sister swung madly with her sword, slicing clean through nothing, and the figure slid his scimitar through her armpit without even slowing down. She fell like the others.

He dealt with the next two with similar triviality. The defensive line of sisters had retreated back towards the Chapel now. The figure looked at them with a morbid curiosity, deciding in whatever sinister mind he had whether they were worth the trouble – and few seconds, Sofie guessed – to kill. He turned away, apparently satisfied with his performance, and stared right up – at _her._ He slid his scimitar into its holster and leaped forward, gripping the edge of the wall where Sofie sat and dragging himself up.

She stood up, drawing her mace and preparing herself, but he shook his head and then, in a move that took Sofie completely by surprised, he lifted her up and flung her off the edge of the ramparts before following himself. She felt the wind hissing up past her ear in the seconds her fall took her, and in that time she was too confused to scream or flail. It didn't help, of course, that when she fell she felt no pain at all – not from the landing, nor from the palm of her hand which bled profusely.

She sat up as the one in black landed in front of her, turning and watching her silently.


	7. Chapter 7

The journey to the edge of town was uneventful, especially compared to the rest of that morning. There wasn't a soul in sight; it was far too early for that, and the Sisterhood was still reeling from the attack. Sofie felt guilt for a second, until she reminded herself of the fact that they were to put her to the sword as her mysterious rescuer had put them to it, and that comforted her. She didn't quite trust the one in black, who skulked through the shadows ahead of her like a wolf on the hunt, crouched over and ever-alert.

They turned the corner, into an opening where a ring of houses walled-in a small patch of grass which was turning dry and brown where its life was escaping it. He stopped at the opening into the yard and edged his head around the corner. Sofie could hear the coughing and muttering of some people on the other side of the building. They sounded like urchins.

The figure drew his sword, marching around the corner. _Understandable,_ she thought, _they'd just rat us out to the guard_. There wasn't even a scream, just a muffled gasp and the slumping of bodies. The one in black plate appeared on the other side of the courtyard, beckoning the Sister to follow him out of town. She did so.

They were outside of _Mordheim_ now (the name struggled to come out when she said it aloud; it felt unnatural.) There was a lone oil-lamp casting a weak, flickering crescent of light over the track, which fell down to the East before being swallowed by the shadows of trees. The figure leant against this lamp, whistling coarsely.

"Nothing happened," Sofie mused. The figure turned and looked at her with his head cocked to the side. The whinny of a horse and the beat of hooves rose up from behind him, as a wagon appeared before them. It was well-polished; the cabin was a deep purple which blended in well with the morning haze. It was drawn by two black stallions that looked muscular and healthy, but when Sofie patted one's neck with gratitude it felt cold to the touch. The figure strolled up to the wagon, delicately opening one of the doors and inviting Sofie inside.

There was a lash from the front of a wagon, where some unseen teamster willed the horses into action. The one sat opposite Sofie saw her puzzlement.

"Banshee," he spoke slowly; articulately. He took off his mask and wiped his brow. He grinned at Sofie, and his voice was as sharp and delicate as his fangs. "They aren't seen until they want to be seen; she doesn't trust you yet. She will in time."

"In time?" Sofie spoke cautiously, like someone trying to walk through a field of nails.

"Oh, yes." The figure spoke. He was handsome, in a strange way. His face was smooth and his features were all sharp and defined. He conducted himself with the grace of a gentleman. "You look parched, dear. How about some wine?" He opened a case above his head and pulled out a small, clear bottle. Something red and viscous sat inside it. He poured a cup for himself and a cup for the Sister.

Sofie glared at it for a second. Something was strange about the wine, that shook like jelly in-time with every incline, pebble and jaggedness on the path. He looked at her expectantly, so she sighed and drank. It tasted perfect – the flavour was sharp and intoxicating, and she felt warmth flood into her face. Her cheeks, which had been bone-tight with decay before, were now lively and plump. She felt invigorated. "What is it?"

"Blood, dear." The man laughed sadistically. He watched her put the cup down for a few seconds before the alluring scent made her lop up every drop like a starved dog would with meat. "Oh, yes. Everyone's like that, when they start. You put it off for so long, you see; _what civilized person would dare drink such a thing?_ " He paused. "And then when you take that first little sip, it's like someone's deprived something from you, all your life; something you needed." Something resonated with the young Sister. She watched him with intent.

"You hated your order, didn't you? The protocols, the rigidness. The mistreatment; why do you think they set you off with a merchant carriage, alongside bandits, and alcoholics, and lowlifes?" He laughed again and it drove through Sofie's ears like an ice-pick. "But enough about that. I want to know about the details. There's a story they told you, isn't there? Something about a Sister and a Babe…"

"I refuse to tell the likes of you." She spat. Blood was dripping down from the corners of her mouth in her feverish drinking.

"Very well. You'll learn to trust me," The man spoke with a disarming smile, "I intend you treat you like a Princess." There was a moaning of horses from ahead of the man, and the wagon drew to a halt. "It appears we are here." The man donned his helmet once more and slid out of the wagon. Sofie followed. The scene made her gasp.

The keep was an intimidating sight. Sat in an opening in the woodland like a king's head in the middle of a fur cloak, its tower seemed unnaturally and menacingly sharp at the tip. The main building was ringed with a single set of walls, all of coal-black stone, that were old enough to be respected, but well-kept enough to be fit for purpose. There was not a streak of moss or a hole in sight. In-between the open gate and the wagon, figures milled about slowly and with strain. The arrow that stuck from one's shoulder-blade as it stumbled out of an opening between trees, wood-axe loosely in-hand, told her that these were undead; and yet they made no effort to harm her even as she followed her new ally up to the gate. Indeed, on more than one occasion the undead servants would stop to let her pass. She could get used to this.

"How did we not see this?" She muttered aloud.

The man answered without losing his stride, "its great how fast and far you can travel, when your horses don't have the disease we call Life." He paused and tried to neuter the opaqueness of his last comment; "Now then, let us set about training you up."

"Training me up?" Sofie spoke hesitantly. She knew she was a hostage in all but name, but it'd worked out well for her thus far, so she was less than opposed to whatever the man had in mind.

"Why yes, my dear. You're going to make a lovely Lahmian." He chuckled, "Lovely Lahmian!"


	8. Chapter 8

The doors to the keep swung open with supernatural pride. Inside was a single large hall with a set of staircases at the other end, rising up into a balcony which led to more rooms, further in. The walls were lavishly decorated with curtains of maroon and purple velvet. Sofie stood with mouth agape. Stone pillars protruded from the walls at regular intervals, mounting stone statues of Elven maidens, Imperial knights and snarling gargoyles. She only looked around at this room, this beautiful and enthralling place, for a few seconds, but already the man was stood atop the balcony, revelling in his riches and possessions.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" He mused with confidence. "The softness of one's surroundings must match the softness of one's voice," he stopped and rubbed the nearest curtain between finger and thumb, "If one does not want to appear crude. But we must move on, come; I will show you your room, dear, and then I will show you those who will make you a fierce warrior, a predator of the night-" He grew feverish, struggling to stand still in his excitement and anticipation.

"Wait."

He stopped, sighing. "Yes?"

"Before I go on – and know that I put my trust in you, sir, that you are true to your word and intentions," She spoke courteously, as she had been taught. It comforted her, the knowledge that even in her present state she could maintain an air of articulation and femininity, even if she were faking it entirely. Another evil, scheming voice called into her head; _that could come in useful!_

"Anything you need, dear!" He chirped. "I have eternity; so do you!"

"I must know who you are, kind sir." She declared. He began to pace from one end of the balcony to the other.

"Who I am? I am your supervisor; your protector; your friend!"

"Not good enough." She mumbled, coldly. He stopped dead, and grumbled in disappointment.

"Very well. Count Salvadore Ravenstock of Sylvania, at your service." He bowed with the grace of any nobleman, one arm tucked up against his upper-back, the other bearing a hand with twirled along with his arching back.

"Sylvania? We're in Sylvania?" She muttered. It wasn't that she disbelieved it; more that she didn't want to believe it. She was still coming to terms with her condition, and the reality of the situation had yet to dawn on her. But at least she felt no guilt anymore; no attachment for the ones who had betrayed her and vouched for- No, _cheered at_ her death.

"Enough chat, come on. We have eternity to exist, but not eternity to _live_! Come on!" He chirped again, almost like a child. Sofie relented and followed him through another corridor.

He stopped at an unopened door and breathed deeply. Then he pushed it open, and with pride declared; "This is where you shall stay!"

The room was beautiful, no doubt about that. The walls were plastered with water-colour paintings, and the floor was dominated by a rug; made from a beastman's pelt, it looked like. The bed was hidden behind a thin cover of velvet that looked like silk, and when it caught the light from one of many candles and lamps, it shimmered like a spider's web holding water droplets. That was all very beautiful, but the one thing that Sofie couldn't keep her eyes off of was in the corner of the room; a small statuette, again a gargoyle, that crouched facing into the bed itself. She could've sworn that she'd seen gusts of air launched from its nostrils. She even thought she saw its thin, black eyes blinking. She found herself walking towards it, ignoring Ravenstock, who was muttering away to himself like a tour guide. She ventured to raise her hand to touch it, but a hiss from behind her made her stop.

"Don't touch the gargoyle!" He seethed. "You're not ready yet, dear!" He spoke with a teacher's anger; that little spike of disappointment and lament, as opposed to that of rage.

Sofie sighed. _Alright then, let's change the subject._ "Why are you helping me – you know, treating me like a queen and all?" She opened her arms wide like she was about to go in for a hug. She'd never been treated to such luxury before. It had always been humility; a small bed-chamber with just the essentials, which was forever plagued by the machinations of a rat, or some cockroaches, or something. She had no idea how to describe it.

But it didn't matter; Ravenstock brushed it off regardless. "Not now. At dinner, perhaps?" He spoke quietly. The Sister shuffled uncomfortably. "When you can see the moon behind the top of my tower, that is when dinner shall be served. It'll be wonderful!"

"And for now?"

"Oh, you just look around. Be a nice girl. Perhaps you'd better get to know my Armourer. He's in my Fun Chamber!" he chirped again and clapped loudly, smiling warmly. "Off you go, now!" He gave her directions quickly, before swaggering off to do… whatever it is such a figure occupies himself with doing.

Left to her own devices, Sofie soon got lost. Everything was scarcely lit by candlelight, with velvet and scarlet decoration, intricately-carved ceilings and statues and walls, so it was appeared very labyrinthine. She didn't mind, though. Her quiet, aimless walking gave her time to think; just as well, too, because her head had been spinning wildly since the execution. She was surprised she hadn't gone delirious.

 _You're siding with a vampire,_ she reminded herself, _and you_ _are_ _a vampire._ Hm. Maybe she had gone delirious after all. Another turn, this time to the left. Nothing looked like a 'fun chamber'; a small hallway branching off in two directions like the tongue of a snake. A cleaner with an arrow-head stuck through his temple, clumsily brushing up dust and muck.

 _I'm not ready? I'll show him I'm ready._ She seethed in her head. Her head was spinning, but there was also a thrill. The sort of thrill you get when you know you're crossing the line, but you do it anyway. Siding with a vampire, after so many years in servitude to an Empire and God who had condemned her to death. Entering his home – what a beautiful home it was! – As a guest, with no idea what was going to happen, or for how long she was to stay.

 _And I'm a vampire as well._ She smiled wickedly as she turned another corner and took in cold, fresh air. She was at the end of a balcony now, though she had no idea how she got there. It was open on both sides, but it was sheltered by a thatched roof held up by wooden beams. She hadn't even began to think of the connotations. The thirst for blood – that delightful liquor can't have been anything else- and the strange warmth that darkness gave her. The speed, the strength; she'd seen that already. The sensations…

She paused. There was a rhythmic banging. She followed it across the balcony, down some winding steps. She found herself faced by a portcullis, framed within a large picket-fence. She peered through, and saw that the wall met in a large circle, a good 20-or-so metres in diameter. The banging continued, off to the right. She couldn't see its source. _Quite the 'fun' chamber_ , she mused. She let her eyes wander to one of countless stains on the stone-tiled floor. Blood. She licked her lips and pulled at the portcullis. It began to buckle and break, but before she could tear it free, it began to rise itself.

"Ooh!" A deep, guttural voice groaned, "This challenger's very eager! Let's see what Goldback has for it today!"

Sofie wandered through; accepted the challenge. There was the grating of a pulley and the portcullis buried itself in the ground behind her.


	9. Chapter 9

**Any and all feedback is appreciated!**

Sofie let the last piece of plate armour fall to the dirt beside her. She stood in a defensive stance, in only a thin, leather shirt and trousers. She didn't know what she would be facing, though she heard the distinctive pulley of a lift on the other side of the arena, but she wasn't worried. She tried to think of something she couldn't kill, given her newfound prowess, and she struggled.

She drew her mace and held it out ahead of her, so that the head was level with her breasts. Her eyes were fixed on the gap beneath the seating area, where the lift would surely appear. It was easily large enough to fit an Ogre in it, and this should've cautioned her. Perhaps a few weeks ago, when she were far weaker, it would have. But no longer.

"Everybody to your seats!" The guttural announcer called out again. His voice seemed to echo throughout the arena; she had no idea where he was. In an instant, there were mutterings of a crowd, and bustling of people filing through rows to get to seats, but they were surreal; like voices that were figments of her imagination. She looked around the arena and saw the source of this commotion; all around her, blue mists were forming ghostly figures, all of them feminine and all of their features distorted and stretched. Every one of them wore the remains of a white dress, tattered and torn by age so that it hung loosely from their wiry frames. Every one of them had a mouth that was twisted into an unnerving scream.

When the last of the spirits had settled down, a flickering light illuminated the darkness ahead of her. Inside the gap stood a tall, stocky figure; nearly the size of an ogre, if only slightly thinner. It dragged its large, bare feet through the entrance, breaking off splinters of wood as it drew itself through an entrance that was just too small for it. In the open, with the creature standing with a stillness and a morose expression, Sofie eyed up her challenge.

The creature was nude, with blue-grey skin that was covered in cuts and scars. Its arms were covered in chains, but its hands were free, both hanging limp at its side. Its back was a city skyline, where the towers and buildings were gravestones and crosses, and the ground was a pair of stocky shoulders that leaked blood where the display broke through its skin. It sniffed the air, looking Sofie dead in the eyes, and growled. Drawing a hand up to its back, it tore one of the tombstones free with a cry of pain and held it up like a club.

The beast was at least three times the Sister's height, and its armament looked capable of halving her with a hit. She suddenly felt small, insignificant and, though she loathed to admit it; and nobody would make her, she was afraid. She felt her legs shake and nearly give way, even as the Ghoul took several clumsy steps towards her. She felt overwhelmed by fright. It disoriented her; she'd not quite forgotten about such mortal feelings, of course, but she didn't imagine she'd ever suffer their presence again.

The beast caught its bearings and roared, charging with surprising quickness and bringing the tombstone down in a wide arc. Sofie barely managed to evade the strike, her reactions clumsy and weighed-down by the nearly paralyzing fear. She rolled past ghoul even as it recovered its weapon for another strike, driving her mace low into the creature's ankle. It howled as the metal ball punched through flaky skin and long-dead muscle and brought its free hand around. Its fist caught Sofie on the arm, and the sheer force of the blow sent her spinning through the air and falling onto her back. The banshees in the crowd began a series of excited wails,

Her mind wandered back to the incident that had set her on this journey. The blow from Ravenstock that had sent her spiralling, powerless and defeated. The shame weighed heavier on her now than it did then. She wouldn't lose a second time. Rising, she licked the blood off of her mace and beckoned the beast to try again.

The ghoul was on top of her again now, this time with another weapon in its left hand; an iron tombstone that had long-since been defiled by rust, its head not a cross but a twin-tailed comet. The creature brought both of its weapons down towards Sofie. She beat one away with a struggle, sending it skidding along the dirt behind the ghoul, but the comet landed tails-first into her side, scoring two grizzly hits and forming large, bleeding holes in her body. Sofie didn't feel a biting pain; instead, her legs were paralyzed – like pins and needles – and it made her movements appear even more amateur than before.

When the ghoul landed another blow, this time tearing a chunk of flesh from her chest, the fight appeared to be over. The Spirits, howling and jeering, reached their peak, and the Ghoul seemed to sense its victory. It rose the tombstone above its head and prepared to deliver another blow.

"I've seen enough." That charm-laced voice called from behind the creature. There was the sound of fingers clicking, and the Ghoul fell apart, into a pile of skin, bone-dust and limbs. Sofie began to stand. Once again _he_ had to save her. She spat onto the macabre sight that was once the Ghoul. Ravenstock stood with the sternness and disappointment of a teacher. "You failed."

"So it appears…" Sofie bowed her head.

"I saw it all. You failed. You won't last a second without me." The sister looked up with a schoolboy's defiance. "But we have time to train you up, and you can still make it up to me."

"How?" She called. In fact, it was almost a beg; her voice was high and broken like the whimper of a dog. She felt a connection to this monster that she couldn't explain. His approval was strangely desirable.

"If what you lack in mettle, you make up in mind, I will consider continuing on with you. Else… you are a lost cause." He looked behind him at the crevice from where the Ghoul had emerged. In between Ravenstock and that stood a small, stocky figure. It was clad in plate, but it wasn't human. It looked far too high-quality for that, what with its ornate golden trim, and the way it hugged the creature's body without looking to be a burden at all. Its eyes were covered by a helmet which was caved in across its forehead, and its mouth was concealed by a shaggy, grey beard that carried bits of dust and filth in its locks.

"Goldback, my dear smith, can you call up my latest prizes?" Ravenstock called to this figure. He grunted quietly with a nod, disappearing up a set of stairs. The lift retreated back into the darkness before rising again. Two skeletons emerged with nothing but spears and round shields, and behind them marched a handful of people in column. They weren't dead, but the look of distance and horror from some unimaginable cruelty made them blend in well with their undead captors.

"Deal with them; I have no use for a pompous bean-counter and his privileged, bastard family." The venom in his voice took Sofie aback. She expected Ravenstock to be jovial and optimistic, as he had been thus far. It comforted her that there was a weakness to someone who was otherwise her lecturer and superior.

Goldback and Ravenstock left as quickly as they had arrived, after Count reminded her of the imminent dinner and smith chided her over her performance.

Sofie made the five captives line up against the wall. Two adults; one notably plump from a life of eating grapes and downing wine, the other looking healthy, but with hands that bore the damage of a life of housework. Three children, all with a gaze of pretention and a privileged physique that mirrored their father. Nobody spoke as Sofie paced ahead of them, intentionally close enough to elicit a freeze-up from each in turn as she passed. Finally, the merchant himself wet his lips and spoke weakly:

"Please, miss. I recognise you." Sofie knelt in front of the merchant.

"Oh? Speak up."

"You said… A sister always helps those in need. I remember…"

"What of it?"

"Help us… Set us free, please! Find some goodness in your heart, there must be some light left!" He pleaded.

"Hm. I'm hesitant, you know?" Sofie chuckled, blowing the man a kiss with cold lips. "I've got quite a good thing going on here."

"A Sister of Sigmar can't let us die like this!" He seethed whimperishly, starting to tear up. His wife was already crying deeply, in acceptance of her fate. The children followed her example, but still the Merchant looked her in the eyes.

"That's good, then!" She declared. "For there are no Sisters of Sigmar here."

She stood up and brandished a knife. Starting with the children, youngest first, she slit each one's throat in turn; taking time to relish in the wails of terror from the mother and father before ending their lives too. She took the time to taste each one's blood in turn, drinking until she felt satisfied. The way the merchant's tasted vaguely of fine wine in particular set Sofie's sensations on fire and put her in a very, very good mood.

"Now." She called out, looking at one of the skeletons. "Isn't it time for dinner?" The skeleton stared at her and groaned. "I'll take that as a yes!" Sofie cheered, marching off through the portcullis and back to the keep.


	10. Chapter 10

"Listen well, dear." Ravenstock whispered, glancing over his shoulder at the door behind him. "Before you join our feast, there is something you must know; we Vampires are hunters, as I'm sure you're aware."

Sofie nodded attentively. Ravenstock smiled. "And Hunters we are politically as well. Everyone in that hall, no-matter how warm and friendly they may seem, is just waiting to pounce." He stood quietly, letting Sofie digest his words. "You think before you speak, before you act, before you so much as raise a finger. Do you understand?"

Sofie shifted weight, from one foot to the other, and rubbed the sleeve of her Bordeaux dress with her fingers. "Yes, of course, sir." The thought of getting caught in the web of nobility and politics made Sofie sick. It was definitely not something she was used to, but she expected that if she were to gain power – and she was determined to do just that – it would be something she'd have to get used to.

"Good, good. You sit by me. I will show you off to my peers." He declared. Sofie raised an eyebrow, but he didn't give her a chance to question. Instead, he held her gently by the hand and guided her through the doorway. "Make yourself comfortable, dear, and stay quiet. Talk to no-one, at least not until I put you on display! I will bring us all together for a toast when I am ready." Again, Sofie nodded diligently.

Sofie was hit by a stream of chatter from those attending the feast. There were several clusters of women in eloquent, obnoxious dresses of every colour, and men in pristine suits with wine in hand. Each group she passed muttered a different conversation; I'm the best one here at horse-racing, declared one. Have you ever tasted anything better than blood? Questioned another. She manoeuvred herself past the guests and into the corner of the room, plucking a glass of _Bugman's Ale_ from the table top in passing. If she was going to sit through this, she really didn't want to be sober.

She watched Ravenstock scurrying after everyone feverishly, shaking hands and greeting each with a warm welcome. She mused as she watched him, sweating in anxiety – she didn't know the undead could feel such a thing – and trying to make himself presentable. She was distracted from this, though, when she noticed that one of the nobles was watching her with curiosity, muttering something which made his colleague erupt into bouts of laughter. Sofie stood up and approached the man. She'd learned already not to get intimidated by these people; she was one of them after-all.

But she'd also learned from observation that courtesy and submissiveness was a fine tool. All of them had the egos of a nobleman; and not only that, but they were noblemen who were immortal, too. "A pleasure to make your acquaintance, sir." She hummed with a slight smile.

The nobleman scoffed in disgust. "I wish I could say the same. Tell me dear," He tapped the woman next to him on the shoulder, and she turned to face Sofie with puckered, scarlet lips and a face so made-up that she looked artificial. "Old Sal's taste in blood has really taken a new low, hasn't it?" He reached for Sofie's arm, drawing it upwards for inspection. He rolled his finger and thumb over it, gasping in shock as he felt the bone-tight skin. He pinched her, trying to draw up some fat, and when that failed he relented and let the arm drop.

"My, my," the woman spoke obnoxiously, "You won't get much of a meal out of this o-"She stopped as an arm appeared, wrapped over her shoulder, and Ravenstock stood and gave each a look in-turn.

"Well, my lady Serene of Marienburg, Sir Audre of Mousillon," He cocked his head to the old noble-woman and the knight in turn, and they showed the same respect. "I do hope you're enjoying this gathering. Come, come now, and I will show you around; there is much to see, much to see!" He led them off, turning to Sofie with a scowl, as if to say; _you will forget everything you just heard._

Again, Sofie tried to make herself scant. She loitered as far from the clusters of guests as possible, trying her best to stay out of the web of false flattery and gossip. She took idle sips of ale, and found that it tasted far better than it had in her human years. Maybe her taste was heightened like her other senses? She relented that, as good as it tasted, it wasn't going to match the taste of blood. She felt a sudden craving and cursed herself for it, thankful when a voice from seemingly no source confused and distracted her:

"Come to the stone that howls in the night." It spoke out. It had the croaking of a whisper, but it was loud; enough that it puzzled Sofie that nobody else even bat an eye. There was a ripple through the air, as if a creature that had swallowed her entirely was clearing its throat. "The past repeats in a circular feast. Eventually one will free themselves of the deceit. Perhaps you." It whispered again before falling silent.

There was the sharp clang of glass. "Everyone!" Ravenstock called with his usual flamboyancy. "Dukes and Duchesses, Counts and Countesses, Lords and Lordlings of Sylvania, and Blood Keep, and the true Empire!" He howled. There was a howl of approval from members of the guest-list, who barked like dogs and raised fists into the air. "Firstly, as always, a moment of appreciation for our other guests; still trapped as they are by mortality!" He sent a palm over the heads of the crowd, who had all now found their seats; it almost felt rehearsed. Sofie edged closer so as to avoid suspicion.

She saw that several figures had stood up on their chairs, all plump and lively, with that rushing of blood to rose-cheeks that marked their rising embarrassment. Sofie cocked her head. It almost seemed alien to her now. There was another round of mumbling as the closest vampire, necromancer and lich to the humans gave them subdued applause. They looked almost bored, and Ravenstock clearly noticed.

"Anyway, to the cause of our gathering!" He hurried on, shooting Sofie an excited glance. She felt herself pulled towards him as he stood atop the largest and most decorated chair, cushioned with wool and with a head and arms that were lined with bear fur. "The newest member of our family, our delightful union and," he cleared his throat and basked in the drama, "hopefully, another participant in our righteous cause; the toppling of the mortal regime!"

The cries and cheers returned now, more fuelled by bloodlust and vigor than they had been all evening. Sofie felt the energy to stand besides Ravenstock, who lay a hand on her dirtied hair and pat it gently. She met the disheartened gaze of some of the guests, as they sipped some beverage or another and took tentative bites of food which was merely there to add to immersion. She let them pass through her as Ravenstock spoke again.

"But wait, wait! This one is special!" He looked down at her. She smiled with confidence and glanced across the table. "A Sister of Sigmar, this one is!"

"Orc piss!" One of the guests declared, sounding venomous. There was a ripple of laughter.

"One of those wenches? The Count's lost his mind!" Roared another.

"I-" Ravenstock spoke, stumbling over his words so that he sounded slurred and inaudible. The laughing intensified. He bowed his head.

"Sofie Kophurst. Sister of the Eastern Chapel, Mordheim City." She spoke out. A silence fell as the men and women acknowledged this interruption.

"You're a liar. Nobody claims a Sister of Sigmar."

"In their time of weakness, you do." She pointed a finger skywards. "The comet that is falling. Not only will it fracture Mordheim; it fractures the stability of our Order as well. We've all seen it."

Some mutters of hesitance surfed the guests. They exchanged glances. Sofie swallowed, not to be put off. "And if I am lying; and you let-" Ravenstock unwrapped one arm from another and swiped at her with his clawed hand. She felt a warmth on her cheek as she recoiled. It was bleeding lightly; enough to make her look weak without making him seem barbaric, most likely.

"And as I was saying; with our new asset, we target Mordheim! We take whatever we can find; we set an example to the rest of the rotten carcass that is the Empire that we have the means and the will to take from them what they held so dear."

This time, there was no indecision; the original dissenters saw neither the need nor the ability to persist. They sat there smugly, shaking their heads, and eventually joining in with the unanimous roars of lust, and savagery; the deep, seething howls; all of which were music to Ravenstock's ears. Sofie elbowed him on the leg.

"I trust you're going to tell me about this plan?"

"Absolutely, dear! I think I better had! But first," he wiped a bead of blood from her lips, licked it, and hummed his approval. "I had better gear you up. Can't have you dying before the feast."


	11. Chapter 11

"You'd better look after 'er." Goldback muttered as he pulled away the sheets covering the suit of armour.

Sofie paced back and forth, examining the suit. It was a deep sea-green, easily blending into shadows and night-time. The whole suit was a clean set of interlocking plates, with the elbows, shoulders and knuckles shaped into spikes. On a stand next to the suit was a plate-helmet of the same colour, though it was far simpler than that of the figure behind Goldback, which was following Sofie's steps. It was a normal plate helmet, with a retractable visor. White streaks depicted a snarling daemon, but otherwise it was rather usual. It looked very heavy. Sofie glanced up at Ravenstock. He had been wearing similar armour to this, and it hadn't slowed him down.

But he had the training and the experience.

Sofie was meant to be trained – to be a 'lovely Lahmian', as Ravenstock had so excitedly claimed – but Ravenstock had been told about the comet; it was only a day or two away now. He decided it was no time, and that he would send her in by herself for some purpose he promised he would explain now. Sofie glanced up at him.

"Impressive, isn't it?" He mused. Goldback's face contorted into an ecstastic grin and bits of skin flaked off.

"Won't it weigh me down, sir?" She mused.

"Weigh you down?" Goldback was glaring at her now. "Weigh you down? I've been making armour for centuries, for you lot!" He began to yell, dropping his hammer in a fit of rage. It made the floor screech sharply. "It will not 'weigh you down', missy!"

"I meant no offense, Dwarf."

"Enough." Ravenstock called with arms-crossed. "It will be fine, dearest. I'm sorry that you have not had much opportunity to make yourself accustomed to your body. I did intend for such a thing, of course!" Sofie nodded. "You will just have to learn on the job; don't worry, you're better than them!"

"Indeed I am, sir." She raised her arms, made herself look big. Ravenstock's laugh disarmed her. Grumbling, she continued; "What, exactly, is my job?"

"You're going to loot!" Goldback roared with laughter, "The mighty Vampire Lady, reduced to a street urchin; a bandit!"

Sofie hissed, bearing her fangs. He winced and quietened down. It probably wasn't that she herself was a threat, of course, but if Goldback really had been serving for centuries… she didn't want to imagine what Ravenstock's response to failure could be. That's probably what this was, she thought. A test – the debauched Lords and Ladies had suggested as much. She shrugged and focussed on him again.

"The comet you say will fall upon that city? It is far more than that. I have been told that it is a source of a wondrous material. Wyrdstone, they call it."

"Wyrdstone…" Sofie's eyes sat wide.

"Indeed. Glorious, isn't it? You're going to retrieve for me as much as you can."

"Is that it?"

"Of course not, dear; that's the minimum. But as the hunter of the night, the apex predator you are…" He grinned, and his blood-laced canines glimmered in the dull light, "I trust you will do as you will with our enemies. Just remember, the city is your playground only for a time. You must come back within a fortnight… Or I will have to dispose of you. Can't risk any loose ends, dear Sigmarite!"

"Of course not." She spoke with a dutiful monotony that reminded her of her earlier days. _Do as I will with our enemies?_ She smiled maliciously.

"Good idea, my sweet. The Sisterhood will be a fine target; all Imperial presence too, of course. And a final thing, though it's needless to remind you; don't die. Not without my consent." He laughed warmly, but the way his eyes tracked her betrayed the truth in his words.

"Then I will gather all that you seek, sire. I will bring death to the ones that betrayed me." She drew forth her mace and raised it high in the air, so the comet-shaped head caught the light and shone like a star in an empty sky. Then she tore it free of the grip with ease and beat into it with her fist, yelling and cursing. She dropped the mangled sheet of metal to the floor.

"Bah, good thinga' got you a worthy weapon, isn't it?" Goldback spoke up again. "If you do that to me sweet I'll blow off ya head, vampire or not!" He waddled off out of sight and came back in with a long wooden case. Laying it down, he swung open the lid and drew forth a jet-black broadsword. He let Sofie take hold of it, and she juggled it in her hands. She tested how it felt, how the weight shifted in her hands. She grunted in satisfaction and the dwarf smith returned it.

It hummed slightly, and she felt a dull pain in her temple. She ignored it. She then stripped herself down of all her armour, slipping herself into her new skin and letting the two men help to do it up. With a swing of her head the visor fell over her. Already, she felt hidden. She felt like a faceless murderer, and looked the part too, and it was empowering. The feelings of dread she could provoke made her lips salivate, and her own Sisterhood was a target? That made it ever better. She slid her blade into its sheath and approached the stairwell.

"Remember what I said, dear!" The Vampire called. Sofie turned with an impatient grunt and he leaned back away from her, mocking a look of terror, before chuckling loudly. "Don't get killed without my consent."

Sofie grunted, reached the door and stopped. She looked down at her armour. Even in the darkness of night, anyone who saw her could tell she was something to report. She headed for a cabinet in the corner of the room, donning a cape and flicking the hood over her helmet. She departed.

-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-

Sofie lay crouched in the underbrush, grass stroking the edge of her knees. She could see the gate to the city, open and unguarded, but surveyed the area one last time before making her move. She had seen the meteor landing just a day ago; a great, sickly-green orb that pierced the sky and pulsed with otherworldly force. It definitely did look valuable, but it also looked harmful… chaotic. She sniffed the air. It smelt strongly of cooked duck. A minute ago it at stank of manure. She sighed; the very environment was mutating, already. Perhaps this wasn't going to be as easy as she had hoped.

Regardless, it did give her a quick, exposed entrance to the city with which to begin her mission. She tapped the top of her sheath, smiling at the solid feeling as she confirmed that her blade was still there. Then, she rose from the bushes, a hundred metres or so from the gate. She broke into a sprint, confident that nobody was around, and was within the city before ten seconds had passed.


	12. Chapter 12

**A.N: Feel free to comment on the story, of course. That goes for every chapter. While I have a basic plan in my head, there will be parts that are made up spontaneously in order to tie my basic plot together, and there might be things that aren't interesting, or don't make sense, etc.**

 **Feel free to tell me if you find any flaws like that, or if you have anything else you notice that you'd like me to know about.**

The city was in turmoil now. A thick fog, bending and changing colours in impossible ways, settled over the roads and paved streets so that seeing your fingers when you outstretched your arm was more luck than focus. The sky was a swirling mist of luminous green, forming an eye like that of a hurricane where the comet itself had punched through the clouds and extending in a maelstrom across the sky.

Periodically, a lash of lightning would fall like a lance from this whirlpool, and the effect it had on whatever it touched was seemingly random; when this force hit a rooftop, it blew through it and sent chalk and brick flying like an explosive, but when it engulfed a cart of fruits, melting away the cart and letting them spill out, the apples and pears grew long, slender legs and maws rimmed with teeth and attacked anything nearby.

Naturally, the streets were almost empty. Those who had not succumbed to the madness and taint fled to their homes and hid behind closed doors, and any who were taken by the mutative forces were surely hidden in the darkest crevices, making sure the society they had once called their own could not see them in their sorry state. That did not stop four men from braving this chaos, however; a head of a torch crackled proudly in the fog, which was now a light pink-red mist, and three men followed behind it. The leader stepped into the light.

He was an old man, maybe in his fifties, with a jawline that looked to be crafted by a sculptor. He had a pair of smooth chalk-grey sideburns which were coated in dust and debris – probably from some destruction from somewhere in the city proper. He wore the maroon-and-dark-green garb of Hochland and held up a long-barrelled pistol, all moving cogs and gears, which probed the fog tentatively.

The two men that followed him were both well-built; a few hundred pounds of muscle, without a doubt. They walked through the fog, each holding a shield close, each bringing their swords to bear in terror against whatever shadow, creak or squeal of an animal that they thought might've been a danger to them. The man reached a large wooden building, rectangular and with two huge, red doors; enough to fit a cart inside. It was the size of an old barn, but in the upper-class district of the city it couldn't be, no. This was the Olde Lucky Lot, an inn and bar before the calamity, and the group used it as a safe-haven both because it was large and easy to escape from, but also because it reminded them of a better time… and in such a situation, the mind needs to be defended as vehemently as the body. The leader looked up at the sign that hung in an arch above the doors, shed a small smile, and turned to one of the bodyguards, and spoke with a crudeness:

"Bring up Little Lady!"

The bodyguard nodded, turned and whistled. A small, wiry figure stumbled out of the fog, breathing so heavily that his lungs could've blown right there as he dragged a large satchel behind him.

"Open the gate." The head of the party called. The small man struggled further on with the bag until he reached the door, dropped it, and fumbled nervously with a chain around his neck for a big, bronze key. He opened the padlock that sealed the gate and let it swing open.

"How much did we get our hands on, boy?" The leader called again, with a certain disregard. The man stumbled over his words, and the leader grumbled impatiently and raised a backhand. Little Lady recoiled back, yelping:

"I don't know, sir! Fifteen blocks, maybe twenty!" He bleated, "I haven't had the chance to weigh it!"

The leader shook his head and beckoned the three inside, before closing the door and having Little Lady seal it shut. Then the leader strolled off out of sight, up a set of stairs. Little Lady and the two others followed him into the building.

Inside, the building was poorly-lit, so as to not attract attention. There were two tables, each with a small oil-lamp, but nothing special. On one table, a checkers board lay unattended, with black and white pieces coating the floor beneath. On the other, a mug of beer was sat. The group had no chance to make their own, of course, and this was so old and so exposed to the elements that it no longer frothed at all, and had long since settled so that it looked like…

Little Lady sat down, and lifted it for inspection. He strained his narrow eyes even further in order to see it, and with hesitation took a sniff with two small nostrils.

 _Piss. It smelt of piss._

He drank from it anyway, breathing out deeply. He rarely got the chance to rest, only when the two bodyguards went through the process of storing their looted wyrdstone with the rest, in the cellar beneath the building. Every piece of furniture that wasn't vital was broken up and used as a blockade to keep the tainted energy out…

Little Lady sighed, placing his rifle on the table and stroking his pale, bony limbs. He knew it wouldn't work, even as he stared at the splintered chair legs here and the half-a-table there. He saw the bodyguards taking two handfuls of the stones each, using their shields as platters to avoid touching it directly. Then they shovelled it into the cellar, like workers shovelling coal into a furnace.

Little Lady spun around on the chair, so that he was facing the outside. He stared through the gap in one of the windows, where light seeped in between the curtains. Then he spoke, with a young and tender voice:

"Why do we even bother? That stuff messes with people, man."

"We're told'ta!" One of the bodyguards declared with pride. "We're gonna be rich, don't you know? Rich like all of them lords and somesuch!"

Little Lady got up, waddling over to the wall opposite the tables and next to the cellar trap-door. He could smell… well, whatever the stone wanted him to smell, and he spat in disgust. He leant against the wall, bringing his knife up to a blackboard which, in some other time, would display the meal of the day. Indeed, "Fresh-cooked Clam with spinach – only 3 marks!" was still engraved in it. Beneath this was a set of crosses, each one with a name above it. Little Lady bent over with a wince, carving two more crosses and then, with delicacy and precision, the names "Fegar" and "Roddenhoff." He sniffled in sadness, wiping his eyes with a finger and licking it.

He tasted the salt of a tear, and turned to glance at the bodyguards. They had finished their task and now sat on either end of the checkers board, struggling in vain to figure out what they were supposed to do.

 _By Sigmar… don't cry, don't cry._

He stood and slid out through the open door, smirking at the frustrated grunts and moaning from behind him. He sat down on the edge of an upturned cart, holding his rifle by the end of the barrel with the stock planted into the ground. He breathed in. The air tasted of sugar. He sniffed, and a strong scent of elderflower caught him off-guard.

Then, he looked around, and could've sworn he saw something move out of the corner of his eye. He glanced around with wide eyes. He saw the edge of a robe sliding around the corner of one building, then the back of a hood, hanging out of a doorway before being pulled up by some hand. He lifted his rifle, standing up in a panic. He couldn't see anything.

There was a snap behind him; a twig, It must've been. He turned with a yelp, firing off a shot that went wide…

It hit the bodyguard's round-top helmet at an angle, ricocheting off and casting sparks into the air. The bodyguard snorted like a bull, enraged. Then his glare melted into a cocky smile.

"You're losin' your edge, Li'l Lady. I thought you could shoot straight!" He laughed heartily, trying to dissolve the fear of death that was in his brutish voice.

It was true. He could shoot straight – very well in fact. Little Lady was a handgunner at heart, and even though he was young the Captain had brought him along for that skill. There were rumours going around among those he worked with; that he was trained by Dwarves; that he could shear the tip off a goblin's ear at two hundred yards. He dismissed them all.

"What do you want, Rorik?"

"Boss wants us all inside. He's gon' reveal the plan'ta us."

"The plan?" He found himself grinning… finally they could get their job done and leave this hell. He followed Rorik inside.

Inside, the Captain and the other bodyguard were stood around the table. The checkers-board had been replaced by a map, painstakingly drawn up with quill. Its corners were curled from frequent use. It was a map of the layout of Mordheim, and a thick red circle highlighted something in the north-west quadrant. It looked to be a chapel. Little Lady looked on as the Captain spoke.

"Time has come, boys." He declared. "The pigeon's come back in with a message from our Count. We're getting reinforced, and we're going to hit the biggest stock of Wyrdstone this side of the Chaos Wastes!" He planted his pistol down so that the barrel was pointing into the red circle. "Our count's gonna get enough money to buy out the whole Empire – let alone fight for it! For Reikland!"

He raised a fist into the air and the bodyguards did too. Little Lady followed suit with hesitance, before murmuring tentatively:

"That's where the Sisterhood is based…"

"A good observation!" The Captain laughed at the boy's expense. "What of it?"

"We're on the same side, aren't we?" He pointed at the Imperial insignia on the map with renewed passion. "We can't hurt them. Why should we? It only hurts our cause!"

"Nonsense, lad. The Sisterhood has not only failed," he gestured about him, at the ruined insides of the inn; at the outside, where the mist had turned a deep sea-green and the smell of the air had tried its hardest to mimic a pile of sewage. "But they are corrupt, it is to be assumed, by the Chaos that has taken hold. We do a kindness to each one we kill."

Little Lady began to speak again, but the glare of the Captain blunted his offensive.

"The men arrive within the next two days! Clean your armour, and your weapons; we're going to use the sewers to get in." The bodyguards exchanged bewildered glances. "You see, my intellectually challenged friends, the sewers have long since been abandoned."

Little Lady watched the Captain's fingers run along the path of the sewers as he spoke. It ran all the way from the central market-square to beneath the chapel, before splitting into a fan that snaked throughout the city and beyond. It was the fastest, and safest, means of travel since the calamity, and a fine place from which to spring an ambush…

 **10/04/2016 A/N**

 **Sorry anyone reading this, but I've got exams coming up in just over a month, so I doubt I'll be able to add more to this for quite some time. I might get an update out at some point, but just assume I won't for the next month or so. I'll start writing again when exams are over. Thanks.**


	13. Chapter 13

Sofie checked both of her swords, one against her left hip and another against her right. She drew the blackened sword from its holding. The runes were already glowing white. She looked around for a suitable place to put it. She sighed: She was in the top of one of the guard towers of the city, whose wall – facing inwards- had been blown apart, so that it provided a good vantage point. There was a desk in the corner opposite this wall, and the floor in the centre opened into a trap-door and spiral staircase to ground level. In front of the desk was a table, entirely empty, and through this she stuck the sword.

The glow of the runes reached its climax. A shape began to form; the wailing, dead face appeared first, rising out of the grip of the blade, and dragging with it a tattered white dress. The banshee hovered above the blade, occasionally falling out of shape.

"Why are you here?" Sofie growled at it. The banshee backed up, and raised a hand to her mouth in fake shock.

"What are you so afraid of? I want to help…"

"You're spying on me!" Sofie declared, pounding one of the intact stone walls with her fist. It bent outwards, with the brick that was the centre of the impact collapsing into a fist-shaped wound.

"No, no!" The banshee called again. Her voice was the same as any banshees'; calm and inviting, of a young woman in her prime. It was louder, though, with genuine conviction. "The Count did not send me. I came alone, you see-" Sofie was advancing on the sword now, unconvinced,"-The voice that called to you! At the ball; it was me! I want to help you!" The Vampire paused and eyed up the apparition beneath her helmet.

"How?" She mused.

"I don't know." The Banshee confessed. "Tell me what you learned, so far…"

Sofie itched the back of her neck thoughtfully. She turned and sat with her legs hanging from the blown-out wall, and she watched over the skyline. Beneath her feet began a trail of rooftops, so close as to be almost connected, which ran for two hundred metres or so before stopping. Many such paths of roofs were visible; the homes of the residents before the calamity.

To the East, almost concealed by the remainder of the wall on Sofie's left, there was a long hill which housed the Noble sector. It was all larger, more well-kept houses than the ones beneath Sofie, where the more privileged of Mordheim's society may once have lived. None of that interested her, though – but it did give her a sadistic pleasure to think that these pigs were probably the first to die in the current circumstances. No, she focussed on her target; the great spire of the Sisterhood Chapel which rose from the middle of the noble sector, its great golden bell like a beacon for the rest of the city to follow.

The banshee had been hovering patiently whilst her charge took in her surroundings. Sofie turned around and sighed.

"You want to help me?"

"Yes." She answered simply.

"The Imperials – I don't know who they are - want to raid the Chapel, over there."

"Ah, so _your_ chapel?"

Sofie seethed; "No." The Banshee lowered her head. Sofie continued, "There's a lot of wyrdstone there, so they say. They plan to use the sewers."

"Wyrdstone, yes," The Banshee confirmed, "I have been out getting a feel for the environment myself. The Sisterhood are locking the items away…"

"I plan to follow them," The Vampire spoke with certainty, drawing her other sword – a rather normal, silver bastard sword. It would've been a burden to a human, but Sofie's enhanced strength let her wield it like a short-sword.

"Why follow when you can overtake?" The Banshee mused. She stroked her chin thoughtfully – or, at least, her flickering image did – and floated with supernatural grace besides Sofie. She unwrapped one of her hands from behind her back and pointed a crooked finger at the chapel. Sofie followed her finger and then looked at her suggestively.

"Yes. Go. I will be with you, do not fret." The siren's hand dropped and caressed Sofie's other sword and it hummed in response.

Sofie smirked, taking a few steps back before breaking into a stride and jumping the gap cleanly. Landing on a rooftop, and crushing some tiles into shards underfoot as she did, she broke into a sprint towards the chapel. Stealth was no necessity for her, she'd decided; with her speed there was nothing onlookers could do to stop her even if they could see her. The chapel was getting closer now. The fine bronze décor that framed the white marble stone was now in view, and the scenes portrayed by the two large stone-glass windows on the side facing the Vampire could be made out.

She stopped, suddenly, at the end of the nearest roof-top to the perimeter fence. She wasn't sure why she stopped, but there was a certain gravitas about… _something_ in front of her. She poked her foot forward, like a swimmer testing the waters. When she felt something force her backwards, and felt her stomach churn, she pulled back.

"Banshee." She called into the night. Her sword hummed more violently and a voice, sharp with impatience, answered back;

"What is it, dear? You know I won't always be here to guide y-"

"Yes, I know," The Vampire spoke hastily, insulted. "What is it?"

"Oh, it appears to be a ward, of some description." The banshee observed with an objective detachment. Then she spoke again, and this time her voice was cold and patronising; "Perhaps you should have foreseen this, Sister."

"How do I break through?" She felt her courage melt. The fact that she had to ask a spirit for aid – one who's identity she didn't even know – about such personal matters was an insult in and of itself.

"No doubt there is something on the Sisters that let them pass – something you now lack, given your new attire. Give me a second, I will see if any of them are out past their… curfew." She chuckled to herself. Then, the hum of the sword began to fade in time with the voice until there was only a silence in Sofie's head.

Sofie waited atop the roof, crouched with her palms between her legs in one corner, so that she looked like a gargoyle atop some old gothic church. She could hear voices beneath and behind her, but they were getting louder steadily.

Obviously she had indeed been seen. There were some that were pursuing her. She hadn't yet adapted to her hearing; their voices were loud, but she couldn't guess as to how far away they were. What she could tell for certain was that the voices on either side of the building were different. There were quiet, wary mutterings on the left, and they were emburdened by a crude, brittle voice. There were Imperials there, she assumed.

Those on the right were… different. They were careless, yelling and then falling to murmurs with no rhyme or rhythm. The voice which dominated the rest of the group was deep and guttural, but distinctly human. It barked orders in senile wails that made Sofie's ears twitch with each repetition. She didn't know who they were.

But they were getting close. Sofie cursed, demanding the Banshee's return, and as if on-cue she felt a weak vibration along her thigh.

"I have found a target."


	14. Chapter 14

**A/N: I'm back! Exams are over at last. I'll try and return to my normal routine from now on, but apologies in advance if I'm a bit rusty, and I hope you enjoy.**

The brutish man roared gutturally as he brought his axe down to earth; the signal for those serving him to charge. He peered into the eyes of those Imperials ahead of him, who had gathered hastily into ranks, spears lowered to face the rush of zealots, and cultists, and marauding warriors of the north that opposed them. Just before the two sides met, he saw the beads of sweat dripping down their faces, and saw their polearms twitch as they shook with fear.

There was an uproar as battle was joined. The disciplined ranks of the mercenaries struggling against the strength and reckless bloodlust of those servants of Chaos who opposed them. The Chieftain marched forward. Ahead of him, a cultist was brought low by a spear-point to the throat, though his victory was short-lived as another pushed past the spear-point and tackled him, dagger in hand.

The line was beginning to buckle now. The chieftain was almost disheartened; this battle was to be short-lived. Already his followers were getting between the ranks of the spearmen, where their strength and savagery could be exploited. He grinned at his victory, swiping his axe into the stomach of a mercenary who had filtered through the battle-line. It embedded itself beneath any protection offered by the man's cuirass, and he spat red as the axe was released and he fell.

But then there was commotion above him. He and several of those around him looked up as window flaps swung open and curtains were peeled away. Barrels appeared out of each opening, like the broadside on a warship. They opened fire in sync, down into the crowds of heretics. The padded leather of the norsemen and the naked, tattooed bodies of their followers offered no defense, and immediately their ranks were thinned. The Chieftain roared in rage, but also in excitement; they were trying desperately. There would be more blood to shed. He charged, filling a gap in the line that was left by one of his fallen comrades, who had a seeping red hole in his back.

Peering down at the skirmish, Sofie sighed. "So you say we must help these barbarians?" She ran a finger along her blade to get the Banshee's attention.

"Yes," there was a cold and infuriating laughter, "If you want to get into the chapel, these brutes have one of those you need. I chose her specifically because her condition makes her an easy target." There was an echoing yawn.

Sofie bit her lips in frustration. She tasted iron, and her bottom lip felt warm and sticky. That only made her angrier.

"What," She sighed, "What do you mean 'her condition' ?"

"You shall see. Go, now. Make sure the Imperials lose in this struggle." The voice went silent, as though the siren was musing. "Another thing, My Lady..."

Sofie ignored her, watching the carnage unfold with the same care as a bird of prey watches underbrush, for any sort of movement and any opportunity for prey. There was another billowing of smoke from the houses on either side of the pavement as the handgunners loosed another volley. There were howls of pain and shock as rounds struck home.

The shots came from three buildings; one behind the crumbling line of mercenaries, and the other two on either side of the skirmish. The closest garrison to Sofie was beneath her and to the right, a modest little bakery; all wood-framed brick with a dull maroon roof of tiles. She dropped onto the building with a loud crack of shattering tiles. Nobody seemed to notice; there was still the din of battle to conceal her.

"You're going to have to get used to-" Sofie beat her fist against both of her swords, a signal for the Banshee to silence herself. She complied. Sofie then dropped down to ground-level, turning and dashing through into the bakery proper. Inside, things looked very usual - save for the eery, if expected lack of shopkeep or customer. The polished wooden counter, displaying now-moulding loafs, rolls and cakes, was unharmed by the chaos - as were the handful of paintings that framed the walls.

A candle-light from the floor above cast a shadow down the stairway and across the floor ahead of her. It was a man in a feathered cap, preparing his handgun for another round. Sofie felt haste at the prospect of her tools in the Chaos warband dying off, so she broke into a run - clearing the rest of the room and the stairs in a matter of moments.

She stopped as quickly as she had started, surveying the hall. Three sets of doors led to rooms on the left - probably the bedrooms of this place's previous owners, storage rooms, and the like. The handgunner had moved from the hallway , through one of these doors which was open just enough to let light through. Sofie turned and pushed through the nearest door, drawing her sword. The mercenary didn't even have time to turn around before she was upon him, impaling him in the back once and then twice again for good measure.

Then she cursed herself, as she felt that animalistic tug again. She dropped to one knee, drawing her flask. It was cold, and the water within it was still and full of dirt. She poured it onto the wooden floorboards with disdain, instead placing it on the mercenary's back and forking blood into it.

"What are you doing?" The Siren questioned, "Don't you realise you have a job to do? When the Count returns, and you have failed-"

There was that din again. From the left, two great explosions shot out. She heard, faintly, the quiet chorus of gunfire from the other buildings. There were more howls of pain, and a hurried scampering of heavy boots - too loud for any normal man. The marauders and heretics were retreating...

She stood up, closing her flask and peering out of the window. Sure enough, she caught sight of a pale leg, marked with all sorts of twisted iconography, escaping from view.

"Move, then, you animal!" The voice spoke sharply and angrily, "Can you do nothing right?" Sofie stood bolt upright, jumping from the window - with her enhanced body, it wouldn't harm her - and sprinting off in pursuit. The Imperials were either too slow, or too caught up in their victory, to react to her. She heard their jeering grow faint as she increased the distance. It was almost a mockery, or it felt like it; like they had victored over her as well.

She shook her head to clear her thoughts. One of the cultists was bleeding, she could smell it. The odour was inhuman, carrying with it the smell of burning flesh. No doubt it was a result of some gift. She scoffed at the thought, but it was nauseating and enticing all at once. She sniffed the air to locate her target, and with the determination of a hunting dog she followed it.


	15. Chapter 15

Once the last cultist had passed through the adhoc gate, it closed behind him with a metallic groan. The whole encampment was sectioned off by a crude perimeter wall, made up of anything the heretics could gather, and contained three clusters of tents occupying what was once the central courtyard for an administrative complex. It looked to have housed a good fifty people at peak, but given the recent skirmish, it must've been much fewer now.

As the survivors passed into the courtyard, their heads hung in shame and their faces a spiteful, rage-filled glare, they began to drop off and go about their business. One marauder moved off into the first cluster of tents, behind which a thin trailing of smoke betrayed some sort of smithy in action. Another handful broke off and head into the old town hall, it's dominant presence stood in contrast to the meagre and primitive nature of it's new denizens. The final, tallest and most ashamed of the marauders advanced on, never once letting his eyes wander and never once speaking to any whom he passed.

He passed the final cluster of khaki, leather tents and turned into an alley. Marching forward with a resigned sigh, he turned the corner into the back of the hall. From where he stood, to halfway through the room - which was divided by a thick, black set of curtains - the place betrayed it's past role as a storage room. Large crates of wood, long-since ransacked with their lids still hanging open or absent, were all about. That didn't matter to him.

What mattered was what lay on the other side. He stepped forward, wincing slightly when he heard an echoing scream from behind the curtain. It wasn't that he sympathised with the victim; after all, his warband had scattered all who they had met, and whoever that was must have been a spoil of war, with whom to pay tribute to Chaos.

But what his master could do to that person, he could do to the marauder, too. He swallowed hard and pushed past the curtain. Inside, sets of chairs with bindings for wrists and ankles lay in lines on either side. An intimidating figure stood at the end of one line, examining his latest victim. He was a full head or two taller than any of the others - even the marauders themselves, as hard as that would be to believe. He was fully encased in plate, striking magenta and covered in thick, white patterns that ached to look at, and more painful still to try and understand. The figure took a black hood from the table and covered the victim's head, before freeing him of his bonds and throwing him away with the care of a man swatting flies. He landed out of sight with a thump and a squeal, and there was a shuffling as he was taken away.

The armoured figure turned and looked at the trembling marauder - though in what manner he could not say. There was a deep, muffled sigh. The figure stepped closer. Then, in a strangely beautiful voice, he spoke:

"Who have you brought for me today, my pawn?"

The Marauder gulped. He ran rings around one hand with the other and averted his gaze to the floor. "No-one." He mumbled.

"Speak up, you aren't a snivvling Imperial!" His master seethed.

"No-one." He yelled this time, almost in defiance. He saw the darkness bend in the back of the room as something began moving along the wall. It reached the corner before the movement of this master ahead of the marauder drew his attention back.

"Well, who am I to play with today then?" He cocked his head questioningly.

"Perhaps..." The Marauder paused, "Perhaps the misguided one, from the last raid? You do so like torturin-"

"No!" The plated one spoke in anger - he would've spat if there wasn't a helmet to stop him. "There is only so much he can take... And I require him alive. You, on the other hand..."

The Marauder stepped back. He heard a creak and a slam, and what light the door let pass before was now an envelopment of darkness.

When Sofie reached the end of the road, seeing the cobbled-together wall twenty-odd metres away, she was stopped in her tracks by a raw, horrified screaming.

She stopped, breathing hard into her helmet in surprise. "Are you sure this is where our captive lies?"

"Yes," The banshee groaned with all the enthusiasm of an office secretary. "I don't suppose you're afraid by a little crude wailing?"

Sofie grit her teeth and began looking for a way in. The wall cut across the road from the front of one building into that of the other. It was sturdy enough - as sturdy as you'd expect from barbarians like this, at least. It was all wood and plates of iron, perhaps smelted down from looted weapons and the like. The entire wall was riddled with holes as if it had been attacked before, but the passivity of it's inhabitants - there wasn't a single guard or watchman this side of the central pulley-fed gate - made that seem unlikely.

She began to pace parallel to the wall. There was no doubt in her mind that she could brute force her way in, but she did not know how many, or what, she would be met with if she did so. What if she was swarmed and beaten...

She scoffed at the idea of losing to a mortal, but was regrettably aware of the possibility, however unlikely. Instead, she opted to take a look from the high ground - this cult had set up in the shadow of the main hall, after all, and what they gained in prestige they lost in stealth. She began pacing towards the nearest building, burying her gauntlets in the wall to make her own grips, but when a shimmering light began to spread from over her shouldier she realised she'd been beaten. She turned around.

The source of the light was the translucent figure of a woman. She could not tell her age or demeanor - her face was devoid of any features, and her shape was hazy and hard to pinpoint, even for a vampire. It spoke and it's voice was familiar, of course, but also far more friendly:

"Sofie, I know of a way in." She spoke abruptly, in a calm and soothing echo.

"Is that so? Please share..." Sofie responded, although she wasn't fully paying attention, too busy was she observing the skyline for opportunities to get in.

"This encampment relies on a watchman with a horn - crude, if I may say so, my lady - to alert it to threats, at which point the warriors within should scramble towards the gate. I will make my way into his body; you would be surprised how weak-willed these zealots and barbarians are," she observed, but then gave it more thought: "Or maybe not."

"Excellent, Banshee... Thank you. I don't think I've done that yet." She spoke with a warmness that she had almost forgotten she possessed, but perhaps the Banshee taking a physical form, however otherworldly, coaxed what was left of it from her.

The Banshee chuckled in embarassment, nodded, and disappeared. Sofie felt a cold wind blow past her, in the direction of the town hall's foremost spire. She scaled the nearest building and waited for the time to strike.


	16. Chapter 16

**A/N - Sorry for this taking longer than usual. I've been on holiday up until Saturday and have only just got around to finishing it. Over 20,000 words now, which is great! I really didn't expect this story to last as long or have such positive feedback. Anyway, enjoy.**

After some time of waiting, there was the distinctive sound that Sofie had been waiting for - the deep bellow of a horn. Sofie was stood on the second floor of a house, overlooking the encampment, and she peered over the bannister at the commotion that was ensuing.

Warriors of all sorts swarmed about like gnats, throwing down cups and plates of food and hurriedly gathering any weapon they could find. They were heading for the gate in a disorganised trickle; a far-cry from the discipline and order of the Imperial troops which she had seen before. There was the whine of a strained rope as the gate swung free, and the barbarians fanned out to find their aggressors.

Another cultist, clutching a horn tightly, came running behind the rest of the pack. They peered up at Sofie with eyes that leaked fog and winked. The Vampire nodded back, dropping off of the balcony and down to the ground even as they ran out of sight to further distract the garrison.

Sofie paused, scanning around. She hadn't managed to get a good look at the interior of the camp until this point. It looked to be an old courtyard; a young Oak sat between the three clusters of tents, abandoned and unsuitable against what the chaos worshippers had erected. One of the clusters let loose a trail of smoke, and no doubt the others had fires as well. She turned, darting into cover within one of these clusters and looking around the tent closest to her.

By itself, the tent was rather mundane. It held a mattress, damp with patches of sweat and ripped at the edges, as well as a small stool on which a bloodied knife sat. It had a symbol carved into the hilt, curved and pink. Sofie picked it up, tilting her head, and ran a finger over it. Immediately, it began to glow, sending streaks of ever-changing colour dancing around the sides of the tent. There shouldn't have been a way for something so small to produce so much light - so much that Sofie had to avert her eyes - but there was something supernatural about it.

Then she began to hear a dull humming, blending with the ambience as if it had always been there, and she just hadn't noticed it. It was coming from somewhere ahead of her, as if to guide her on, but to where she couldn't see. Drawing one of her swords, and clutching her contraband tightly, she began to follow it back into the outside, before stopping.

She recognised this symbol. The Sisterhood had a knowledge of Chaos which would draw the ire of any Witch Hunter; it helped with dealing with Chaos and it's followers, as well as healing those upon whom it had forced its afflictions. It was a symbol of Slaanesh - one of the Gods - and though Sofie did not know much about it, her superior Ventra had told her stories about what the Slaaneshis do to captives.

Good, she thought. If they insisted on torture, they would have to keep the captive alive for some time. The vampire sighed with relief and dropped into a crouch; she could hear the sliding of footsteps, even over the humming of the dagger. They were close; a grey shadow passed over the wall of the tent next to which she was hidden.

Sofie peaked around the corner. It looked to be one of the cultists, arms hanging like a bear's paws from tiredness. He hadn't responded to the summons of the watchman and was now hurriedly looking about for some weapon - no doubt to avoid the punishment of his superiors - and when he passed the tent, looking amongst a cluster of crates and muttering incoherently, he had a sword punched through his exposed abdomen where he stood. Another burst through his chest, cutting clean through the boiled leather holding his pauldron in place.

Sofie lay the body down gently. She struggled to explain why she had killed him, for he was far enough away that she could easily slip past. Nevertheless, something subconscious had driven her onwards. Perhaps a sense of guilt - a need to wash away the blood of good people she had spilt with that of the bad.

She shook her head. This was no time for such distractions. Then she focussed in on the humming again, and followed it across the courtyard.

Inside the warehouse, between rows of chairs used for torture - some still blood-stained and surrounded by torture devices - an old man sat. Sofie approached him with caution, pacing carefully so as to make no noise, and in an arch around the room so as to remain in the shadows where the room#s single chandelier couldn't extend it's gaze.

He looked to be an aging man, well-past his prime, but nonetheless he would have looked healthy if not for the scars that criss-crossed his exposed arms and the mould-green bruises that dotted the rest of him. He wore the remains of a garb which Sofie recognised well, and the memory of it stung. He looked like a missionary, a priest of the Sisterhood who led in worship of Sigmar before the comet hit. The robes were torn clean off at his shoulders, no doubt so that his captives could see the fruit of their cruel labour.

Overall, he looked vulnerable. The Vampire felt a compassion for this man, the likes of which she had not felt since her turning. She wanted to cradle him and felt something unconscious pushing her forwards into the light. She placed a gauntleted hand onto the man's shoulder and he did not move. Instead, he spoke:

"Move out of the light."

Something about this man made her obey, and she began to back towards the door, reaching for her weaponry, when the sound of something scraping against leather gave her pause. She turned in an eyeblink, loosing both swords from their sheathe and holding them tightly.

The Warrior of Chaos peered through his helmet, billowing smoke that rapidly changed colour and carried an odour strong enough for anyone in the room to smell it. It smelled pleasant, like a recently trimmed garden, and was strong enough to pacify most.

Unfortunately, his newest target was far from normal - and when he realised this, he shook his head in disapproval and drew a great two-headed axe from his back.


	17. Chapter 17

It was the plated behemoth who struck first, darting straight at the vampire and hacking upwards with the greataxe. He moved with a grace that was jarring for someone of his bulk, and it took Sofie aback. She sidestepped the blow so that the axe scraped harmlessly off of her side before breaking away from him before he could retaliate - she was still faster than he was.

Growling in rage, the warrior charged again, jabbing the head of the axe forward more in rage than out of strategy. Sofie took the chance, grabbing the shaft of the weapon and pulling herself in. She drew her better sword - coal-black, runes glowing to show that the Banshee was present. An ethereal voice muttered: "Now" into her head and she brought the blade into the warrior's stomach.

She expected to feel the warmth of blood on her gauntlet; everything else the blade, by virtue of it's craftmanship or the spirit within it, had cut through with ease. But instead there was a loud crack, a horrified shriek inside Sofie's head - it can't have been her thoughts, for she could hear it vividly - and then nothing. The warrior stepped back, breaking into hearty laughter, and she glared at him with stunned disbelief.

Her possessed blade was no more. It fell apart into shards which broke apart into dust. Behind the warrior was the source of this resilience; a hazy phantom was grinning from behind him, completely unlike his form. Indeed it was humanoid, wearing at once an extravagant wedding gown and then a suit, and it looked androgynous and the gaze of its beady eyes made Sofie numb. It raised a hand which shimmered like a projection, casting it down as if to begin a race, and the servant of Chaos charged again.

With the guide of it's ethereal guardian, the warrior reached the unarmed vampire and swung at her. In her shock she could do nothing but whimper and duck past it, and it tore off the head of a torture chair with a vicious crack and with such force that it embedded itself in the wall. The rest of the duel was hardly that at all; Sofie could only back away, dodging, concerned as much with trying to understand what had happened - what was that shattering wail? - as trying to stay alive.

Eventually, her foe got lucky, striking down onto her head. She failed to move in time, and the strike hit home, hitting her in the top of the head and scraping down over her mask. There was ringing in her ears, the echoing sound of the metal whining on impact as she collapsed to the floor. The Warrior stood over her, frothing in rage and laughing triumphantly. He raised his axe like an executioner, but stopped when a figure began to form next to him.

It was the daemonic creature from before, now taking the form of a lithe, pale woman with a single crab-like claw replacing one hand. With her human hand she tore off Sofie's helmet, and smiled gleefully at the sight.

"Such a beautiful girl," It spoke, it's voice fluctuating at random. It was probably this creature that was the source of the surreal atmosphere; the changing odours that had perforated her helmet and enthralled Sofie's senses were stronger now. "Cut off her head, I want to play with it." She stood up, grinning and clapping, laughing like a schoolgirl. The warrior nodded, grunting and assuming his pose once more.

He brought the blade down. Sofie closed her eyes. She waited for the feeling of the blade severing her neck, but it never came. Instead, the blackness of her vision was replaced by a burst of light. There was a cry, a screech, the rattling of metal against the floor and the hastened footsteps of something running away.

Sofie opened her eyes, but it took seconds to readjust. She sat up. Next to her, where the daemon woman had been, was a scorch mark. The twin-headed axe lay next to her, unowned, and casting its shadow over her body was the man she was here to save. He held a small bronze amulet, shaped into the twin-tailed comet of Sigmar. It glowed brightly, and his hands looked burnt, but he did not seem to care.

"I have purged the daemon!" He cried with disgust. "It shall not harm either of us anymore, Sister! Brother Michael of the Order of the Comet stikes again!" He punched the air with a youthfulness one wouldn't expect from someone so old and tired-looking. But his eyes were not focussed on Sofie, she noticed; indeed, they weren't focussed on anything at all. She remembered Michael. He would teach the girls just as Ventra did, but where she spoke of heroic deeds and martial prowess, he would fill the new Sisters with religious fervour, a hatred of the mutant and the inhuman.

 _And the Undead..._ Sofie frowned, but stood. Immediately the missionary grabbed for her hand and began to pull at it.

"We must leave, come! I must return to the chapel - yes, we will be safe there, safe from all of this. Come on then, Sister."

Sofie waited for the comment of the Banshee, the sarcastic snark of someone who knows they are untouchable. But there was nothing but quiet. Sofie considered the possibility that.. She frowned again. She hadn't even asked her name.

Still, to feel guilty for a phantom - who was no doubt using the Vampire for her own ends - was foolish, Sofie thought, grimacing at herself. Instead she elected to travelling with Michael. It was her only way to get to the chapel, and the wyrdstone that lied within.

They left the building. There was nobody here - perhaps the routing of their champion had broken the spirits of the rest. Michael guided her, always ahead. He didn't appear to be blind without close inspection, and he moved as if guided by a greater force.

Perhaps he was here for a reason; afterall, there must have been a corpse to loot - the Sisterhood would surely have set themselves to cleansing the taint as soon as it arose - for what she needed to breach the chapel's wards. But the Banshee had only mentioned this possibilti, and had insisted she come here.

"Thank you," She muttered. Michael turned around, grumbling. "Oh, nothing." She confirmed, and they continued on their way.


	18. Chapter 18

Little Lady sat at the a desk, facing the window. His handgun lay across the tabletop, with it's metal casement removed on one side and piled up on the floor besides him. In one hand he held a cloth, thickly coated with smoke and dust, and in the other he held a small monocle with which he carried out his precise work.

He did treasure his handgun, as he imagined a mother might love her babe. The thought of it made him proud, and he cracked a smile. He was meant to be looking out for the Captain who, knelt over the cover of a manhole, a pipe in hand, awaited the reinforcements that had been promised. Little Lady was to remain out of sight, so as to put his skills to use...

Little Lady craned his head and spat, so that it didn't tarnish his work. That was nonsense. There were rumours from the bodyguards that a knight was with them, and no doubt a man of the Captain's stature - he was a favoured servant of the Empire, after all - would want to preserve his standing in the presence of one such as that.

That meant keeping Little Lady out of sight... He didn't mind it. It gave him time to work. He let the used cloth fall to the floor behind him and, reaching into a pocket, pulled forth another, fresh one and began to wipe layers of sweat from the stock of the weapon.

His work was interrupted by the clapping of men in the march, and a figure caught his attention and confirmed his suspicions; ahead of a cluster of imperial soldiers, who upon closer inspection through Little Lady's lens already appeared weary-eyed and fatigued, stood a man clad in ink-black armour. He was stood upright, waving a gauntlet to the captain and nodding his yellow-trimmed helmet.

The men behind the knight formed up. There were only eight of them. Little Lady felt himself gulp. That couldn't have been enough...

The Captain didn't seem to share his worries, standing up and striding over to the Blazing Sun knight. He extended his right hand. The knight looked at it silently, raising his other arm. The Captain frowned; the knight's entire fore-arm had been removed. Shuffling, he gestured for the Knight to approach the manhole cover, and began to talk. Little Lady got back to work.

"This is what we are here for, Sir Knight," The Captain spoke slowly, pulling forth some metal plyers and drawing forth a humming lime-green gem from his satchel. "Is it not magnificent?" His mouth twitched with struggle as he broke an awestruck smile, as if it had been a long time indeed since he had done such a thing. "We will be wealthy, just think; we will hire mercenaries, build war machines; we will secure the safety of our province from all comers!" He drew his sword in excitement.

The knight had been watching and listening quietly. He lifted the visor of his bascinet and scratched his chin. His face was young but battered, as if he were still recovering from something scarring; so scarring, it seemed, that it was visible on his form. Eyes that were fiery with vengeance and dulled by recklessness surveyed the captain and his prize. His features did not change. The preachings of this common soldier did not seem to entertain him.

"So," He spoke at last, "you are a mercenary in the garb of something greater?" The Blazing Sun knight stared at the Captain, who stood agape in shock. There was the rippling of laughter from the soldiers behind them.

"Of course not," He mumbled, ringing the fingers of one hand with another, "The wyrdstone will help us, good ser, you see..."

"I am not here for loot and riches as you are, Captain." He lowered his visor, concealing his face, as if to add malevolence to the words that followed. "I am here, assigned to you, because I think you will be a target of one I seek. The one who did so tragically maim me." He brought his stump into the air.

Little Lady looked up. Anything that could disarm a knight of the Blazing Sun was dangerous - and interesting. He quickly reassembled his handgun and pocketed his monocle, before slinging the weapon over his shoulder. He left through the door, heading down the stairs. By habit, he moved slowly, quietly; This captain he had been assigned to for many weeks now, and his response to disobedience was always sudden and physical.

He stopped at the sound of voices. It was the two greatswords, stood outside of the house, facing the knight who lectured and the captain who, with eyes wide and dumb like a child watching a magic show, followed him.

They were probably there to beat him if he wandered out into the meeting. To have one such as 'Little Lady' under your command was a cause for ridicule, as the Captain saw it. The handgunner sighed. He didn't much doubt that; he was a young boy, only nearing his twelth summer. His unkept, brick-red hair and cheeks still lined with the fat of youth made for a comical look.

His one talent, however, and the reason he was kept around...

For some reason or other - nobody could explain it - he was said to be quite the shot. His plump lips parted in a mischievous grin. The Captain was still holding his pipe.

Pulling his handgun from his back, he lined up the shot. It was going to get him beaten, if not worse - the clueless oafs at the door had their hands closed into fists already - but Little Lady didn't care. If he was lucky, the Knight would praise his wit and courage. If he wasn't? Well, he would annoy the Captain - and after the hatred he received, that was payment enough.

He pressed hard on the trigger. There was a billow of smoke from the barrel, and a loud crack. Most would struggle to hold the gun up, let alone straight, but for Little Lady it came naturally. He saw the pipe in the captain's hand buckle and explode into shards that spread across the pavement. He saw the look of surprise turning to anger, and heard the sharp unsheathing of the knight's sword.

The Captain turned to him, glaring and pointing a finger with vindication. The two greatswords turned and closed in.


	19. Chapter 19

As they walked into the open, onto the cobblestone road which twisted up Mordheim's central hill and led to the chapel itself, Sofie couldn't help but note the familiarity of it all. It was early morning, and the sun broke through the green haze enough that sparkles of light dance across the stone, and the buildings on one side cast shadows over her. Michael led her a quarter-way up the hill, where the road flattened slightly. On the right was a long set of empty market stools. She remembered that merchants used to come to and fro, carrying wares unfit for those beneath; fine Tilean wine, salmon from the coast of Nordland and china rumoured to hail from the distant lands of Cathay and Nippon. All of it could be found here.

 _At least, before the calamity._ Sofie sighed and took a deep breath. In her youth she would come and sit here, her feet dangling from the walls. She remembered the aroma of the markets and the lively talk amongst buyer and seller. Now, though, she could see and hear none of it. She watched Brother Michael, who was swaggering ahead of her, humming some idle tune. He seemed a bit too happy, but she didn't question it; if she was to be a sister again, she couldn't. It was probably just how he coped with it all.

They arrived not twenty metres from the double-doors, though they were so large and so decorative that they looked more like cathedral gates. Sofie blinked and looked about her. Sure enough, she saw the place where she had been stopped before; an old house sat in the shadow of the chapel's perimeter walls. The gaps where tiles had been cracked and displaced was still present.

The missionary brought forth a small amulet, carved into the familiar shape of a twin-tailed comet. He muttered blessings to Sigmar and pleaded for entry. The ground lit up, carved into a semicircle across the pavement by blue-white fire. It rose up into a dome, shimmered, and fell away where the Missionary stepped. Sofie followed close behind, cautious of seeming conspicuous, and they made their way towards the gates. A sentry stood there, a stocky-built woman with little of a woman about her at all. She stood cradling the head of a large mace between interlocked hands. Sniffing the air with a certain glee, she nodded to the missionary and glared at the sister who followed.

"A lost sister returns to us!" He called out. The sentry snorted in distaste, but dared not stop him. "This is truly a sign... Yes, I must tell everyone, to lift the spirits of the hundreds-"

"The hundreds?" Sofie called in despair.

"You wouldn't know, Sister." The sentry glared at her, eyes flaming with rage. She seemed to throb with hatred as she continued. "You failed, and then ran away, did you? And found a new group with new attire."

The Missionary paused, looking with pursed lips as if deciding who to reprimand. Then he burst into a bout of laughter. "Oh my! As stalwart as ever, Agnes. You truly are the Bastion!" He strode on, patting her shoulder like a father - or rather, like an uncle. It was bewildering, and as Sofie followed, the puzzled gaze of Agnes the Bastion followed her. Then he turned to Sofie.

"Through these doors, yes." He said, resting a palm on the smaller, but still lavishly sculpted, oak double-doors. "Everyone who is sane, who is innocent and who is faithful. Hundreds of them, we think. This place is a refuge for all that Sigmar cherishes, and we will treat it as such!"

Sofie nodded obediently. He _was_ strange, it wasn't just her misremembering. Michael had never been quite so.. ecstatic.

The doors opened, and the figures stepped through. Immediately, Sofie was set upon by the commotion of hundreds of refugees, all crowded nearly shoulder-to-shoulder in this chapel hall. She had always thought it so vast as a child, but seeing the tightness now - she had barely passed a metre, and already felt the rubbing of shoulders against her and the closing in of the din. Everyone she passed on her way to the altar, where another member of the order sat perusing a text of some sort, she saw a similar picture: Faces that were tired and degraded, like those on the outside.

These were different though, and it filled her with happiness. She watched a pair of children, probably twins, zig-zagging between gaps in the clusters and groups. One of them ran face-first into her, stumbled and grinned sheepishly.

"Sorry!" He squeaked, and ran off. The other boy followed with a chuckle.

Off to the right, a pair of women were discussing the attire that the Sisters wore, with no lack of derision and pity in their expression. As she passed them, they looked at her, nodding respectfully and smiling as if their point had been proven.

Sofie arrived at the altar, kneeling as was customary, and she couldn't help but grin. The marks of fatigue that these people had were tempered by hope, and their eyes were not weary and saddened as those of the Imperial soldiers had been. Instead, they seemed to have a happiness that was admirable, and a stubbornness that was certainly welcome during times like this.

The Sister-Superior looked from her text, and her eyes widened in surprise.

"Sofie?" She called tentatively. Her lips parted into a warm, motherly smile. "You must be exhausted, come. Your sisters will be so happy you survived!" She stood up, advanced towards the Sister and paused. Her eyes narrowing, she scrutinized her and bit her lip, sighing. "I see you are fatigued.. you must rest." The Superior turned, cupping her hand over her temple to hide what seemed to be a glare. She gestured with an aged finger for Sofie to follow, and she did so.

She was directed to an old storeroom, with a rough grey rug fresh with the outline of shelving which had since been removed. The walls were unpainted and undone, so that the bricks - which had been stained by the years - were clearly visible. A single square window hung at head-height, and the light of a cheerful day broke through. There was a grating in the centre of the room. Sofie knelt down and rested her ear against it. She could hear the dripping of water far below; it must have led to a sewer.

She was too tired to ponder it any further - or, at least, she felt she must have been - and she led down on an old oak crate, which had been prepared as a make-shift bed with an old potato sack stuffed with feathers and wool.


	20. Chapter 20

Stepping back from the wall, the Captain rubbed his moustache between two fingers and turned to the cluster of men behind him. "So, boys - Ser Knight," he bowed his head, " - What do we think of this?"

There were mutterings, but nobody spoke up. Leon of Altdorf stepped forward, raising a match against the brick. Orange light streaked up the wall, revealing an eight-pointed star of black powder. This they knew all too well; the presence of chaos so close sent chills down their spines. What caught them unawares, though, was that this star of chaos had been vandalized; over it, in deep-red and orange, three lines made up a triangle that none had seen before.

It had the clumsiness of a greenskin's vandalism - the lines were broken, as if the maker had been in a hurry - but there was something else about it. They had seen a dozen such icons during their travel through the sewers; indeed, they had used it as a guide. That spoke of an intellect above the likes of an orc or goblin.

It was frightening to think about. The captain rubbed his hands together in apprehension.

"I can't see," Little Lady, stood at the back of the pack, grumbled. Rorik turned to face the boy, grinned, and punched him hard in the jaw. Since the boy's insolent act, which so embarassed the Captain in the face of an Imperial knight, they had been given free reign to do to him whatever they desired, and Rorik took this freedom with gleeful pride.

Ahead of them, Leon and the Captain were musing over the item. The captain untethered the scrolled-up map from his side and examined it by torchlight. Neither of them were paying attention. Rorik turned and, realising this for himself, grinned with malice. He placed both hands against the small boy's chest and pushed hard.

Little Lady tumbled over the side of the embankment, into the running sewage-water that cut the tunnel in half. He spluttered for breath. There was little commotion; why would there be? There was the sound of petulant mutterings from Rorik, and the Captain was audibly scolding, but in the ichor-green water, clogged with waste and surrounded by a horrible stench, Little Lady could make out none of it.

The torchlight began to recede. They were actually leaving him. He yelled out in panic, clawing in vain at the side of the bank and slipping off of the soaked brick. He was caught by the current, noticing only too late that there was something off about the grating he approached; they had been bent out of shape, such that he could fit through, albeit tightly.

He was disgorged onto a pile of rubbish, landing atop a discarded carpet of fabric, once purple but now bleached by age and coated in stains and mould. He sat up, feeling rubbing his eyes. He was in the middle of a large chamber, and on either side two circular holes had been carved into the stone, held stable by wooden supports. They looked to be new, or at least oft used, for the wood was of good condition.

Little Lady scaled down the pile of discarded items, stumbling over an old, torn saddlebag and scaling passing onto the left of the chamber. He saw fit to approach one of the exits, for he could not see himself dying here; in a way, that he had been abandoned in such a place reminded him too much of how others had seen him. He frowned, feeling for his handgun and, with a sigh of thankfulness he felt the cold frame of it's stock against the back of his thigh.

Then he saw something which made him draw it with haste; a shadow being framed by torchlight that danced about within the gap in the wall, revealing a circular tunnel curving out of sight. He thought, for a second, that this could have been the Imperials come to find him, but upon closer observation he was disappointed and frightened in equal measure.

The inside of the tunnel was a sickly lime-green. Little Lady scurried about like a mouse in a trap. There was nowhere to hide, and a handgun would do him no use here. He slung it over his back and, though he loathed to suffer the stench, jumped back into the water and waded behind the rubbish-pile.

A high-pitched squeaking rang began above him. The light from the torch grew closer, so that it fell over the end of the embankment and lit up the water around him. It stopped, and another string of different, but similar squeaking took its place. It was fast and skittish, as if the made by something under intense and unending shock. Little Lady thought to hazard a glance over the top, but he didn't need to; something long and flesh-pink fell over the side of the bank, almost slapping him as it passed.

It looked like the tail of a rodent. This in itself didn't scare him; he was used to rats and mice, fond of them infact - after all, he had learned in his younger days that following them often led to foodstuffs, and that had kept him alive for many years - but the tail was large, half a metre long. It belonged to no ordinary rat.

As quickly as the rodent-things arrived, they left. The tail was dragged out of sight and the torchlight receded. _Perhaps,_ thought the handgunner, dragging himself onto the dry and facing the tunnel, _following these rats or mice will find me a way out of here._ He stood in painful indecision, but the darkness was more intrusive now, and he did not see any other option, so he unslung his handgun and proceeded into the tunnel from which the strangers had come.

 **This came out later than expected. I'll try to leave no longer than a month between each upload to account for work and such, but I can't guarantee.**

 **Merry Christmas!**


	21. Chapter 21

All about the chamber, there was a crescendo of snarls and hisses. A swarm of furred creatures, of brown and matted grey, growled and swung weapons of all sorts skyward. Then they quietened down, such that they were instead muttering in reserved excitement. A large, jet-black creature marched forth, hoisting a glaive with one hand and dragging a chain with the other. Behind it marched a handful of men, savaged and bleeding from beatings. As they came out into the open, the roaring of cruel delight broke out again.

Somewhere in the colliseum, behind a row of the creatures and masked by their ecstatic row, Little Lady crawled out of a crack in the wall. He breathed deeply and sniffed the air, as if testing to see if it were any cleaner or pleasant than what he had just endured. With a shiver of fear he found that, instead, the smell of wet fur and dung, punctuated by the smell of iron from blood, had grown more intense. He surveyed the room - if one could call it that, for it was merely a section of ground shaped by the piling up of loot and punctuated by large poles wielding bright, red triangles - and saw nothing about. There were creatures ahead of him, though; when they lifted their weapons and growled, their arms and teeth and claws sent shadows dancing across the room.

Immediately the shadows froze and then pulled away as the creatures moved. Little Lady heard what was drawing them; a high-ptiched series of squeaks like what he had heard before, but there was an odd tone there, one of control and vindication. It almost reminded him of a sigmarite Priest...

The voice came from a grey-maned rat stood in the highest vantage point of the arena. It was surveying the broken men beneath it with beady, hateful eyes and passionately saying something unrecognisable. The ratmen all around jeered and roared. It raised a hand, and another black rat came from whence the prisoners had been brought. It carried with it a hulking sack which it emptied in front of them; chestplates, greaves, swords and shields all fell out. The grey rat looked thoughtfully, gulped, and spoke with surprising elequence:

"Man-things! Take weapon-swords and armour-furs. Face-fight assassins of Eshin, I prove to them you are weak, pathetic creatures! Then they help-assist us, get much-lots warpstone!" The creature stopped as if awaiting their awe, but the prisoners did not respond. They were too glazed and distant from their torture, or too shocked. With a howl of disappointment it turned and gestured behind it. The shadows seemed to bend and reform as figures in stitched robes and hoods fell into the arena, seemingly from nowhere.

It was in this commotion that Little Lady was able to move out towards the arena, through a narrow hallway littered with molted hairs and full of the odour of the beasts. He found himself in a viewing deck, beneath the leader of the ratmen but above the jeering mass of lesser creatures which watched in expectation. Beneath him, in the arena-proper, his cohort had finished arming themselves; the two Greatswords stood uncertainly, and the Captain was trembling too. The only one who appeared unfazed was Leon of Altdorf, whose single arm held a long blade above his head in challenge.

Then one of the black-robed rats screeched coarsely, almost as if it were laughing. It raised a gloved paw and it's fellows backed away. "Leave! Need only me to kill-crush stupid man-thing." Its arm fell to it's side, clutching the handle of a firearm of sorts. It's other hand held a blade which made the air around it shimmer like a mirage. Something green dripped from it onto the floor and bubbled. It roared it's challenge.

The greatswords were the first to answer, advancing shoulder-to-shoulder with their zweihanders prepared. Rorik attacked first, his greatsword sweeping in a horizontal arc. The assassin seemed to melt into shadow as it appeared on the other side of the blade, unharmed. It jabbed forward with it's own vile sword, forcing the greatsword back. His comrade saw the opportunity, dropping back and around the rat-man and bringing his own blade forward with a swift thrust. He had doubtless done this a hundred times before; each time slicing the sword-arm off an orc, or punching through a minotaur's hide, but again the assassin was too fast. It lept into the air with surprising grace, dropping to it's knees. It's arm shot up on instinct, embedding it's blade into the Greatsword's side. The cheering crowds reached a crescendo.

He fell with a gurgle, and began throwing up blood and sick over the floor of the arena. By this time, though, Rorik had recovered his wits, and seeing what had befallen his comrade he roared in anger, enough to set a Norscan's hair on edge, and returned to the fray. They began to exchange blows, the speed and finesse of the ratman facing the brute force and discipline of the human.

In the viewing port, Little Lady felt himself sweating with horror and wrought with indecision. He had reached for his handgun, to perhaps slay the creature before it could bring more harm to his comrades, but something made him freeze. Even if he took the shot... He scanned the crowds. There were hundreds in here, and they surely wouldn't take kindly to such an afront. The men that were left were surely doomed, but he? He could escape.. he could run.

He felt a sting of guilt when he saw the Knight of the Blazing Sun scanning the field with stoicness, leaning on his sword with the suave detachment of a rich man on a cane. That man had saved his life from the Captain's wrath, had shown faith in him. If he let down one of the few to see him as more than a deadweight child, he would have nothing else...

With a nod of self-approval, he planted his handgun on the banister, aiming into the duel. Rorik was on the losing end of it - what had started as a vengeful attack became a desperate defense as the rat assassin launched blow after blow, slicing and kicking and whipping with it's tail like the beast it was. It was not long before the greatsword howled in pain, a blow from the ratman's clawed, silk-wrapped foot to the face sending him to the ground.

Then Little Lady took the shot. A wave of silence washed over the masses of onlookers as they struggled to work out what had happened. The ratman stopped suddenly, his head blown out. Bits of bone and meat flew backwards as he collapsed. The lesser beasts muttered and cried and began to try and flee, but the leader - who, up until now, had been watching from above with malevolent interest - was staring across at him. He raised a hand and pointed, and the viewing box began to groan as the wood splintered and fell apart. The entire structure was collapsing, and Little Lady scrambled to escape - to no avail. As he began to fall, praying to Sigmar for protection, he noticed the knight stood calmly as ever, facing him. He nodded and smiled.

The chamber fell in on itself, sending Little Lady tumbling to the floor, shocked but alive. There was no apparent exit - the entryway to the arena was clogged with debris from the fall - but for now he was safe. He listened intently to the noises outside - the roaring of the beasts, the desperate beating of metal-on-metal, and the periodic screams of the trio being picked apart by the Rat sorceror's vanguard.

Within a day of the expedition beginning, Little Lady was alone.


	22. Chapter 22

"A vampire," Ventra spoke in hushed tones. She shook her head in disbelief. "Are you certain?"

The sister stood opposite her desk, cradling a mace by the head and nodding. "Blessed Superior, she does not ever sleep, and her eyes glow deep red like rubies. Her skin is like chalk and her gaze makes me sick." Her superior considered her words quietly. She looked as if she would explode into rage - Sofie had always been special to her, ever since she came into her life and filled a void that was otherwise agonizing. But instead she just sighed quietly.

"And the reinforcements from the Empire?"

The Sister felt through her pockets and pulled forth a scroll. She unwrapped it and eyed it over. It was a letter from a Witch Hunter, a certain Abraham Rudolf Henkler, detailing the imminent arrival of him along with a detachment of knights and priests to purify the city - in his own words, it was deemed 'too sickly to be redeemed; a blight upon Sigmar's holy soil' and it was to be removed. "They will arrival shortly - three days, by their estimate, and if a beast of the night is in our midst..."

"...Yes, we will be targetted too." The Superior nodded, wincing as if in pain. "Very well.. I will deal with her, Sister Beatrice. Thank you." Beatrice bowed and left the room. As the door closed ahead of her, Ventra suddenly felt a great weight and a tug of guilt as she considered how to deal with yet another corruption within this city - and inside the Sisterhood itself...

"By Sigmar..." She buried her head in a palm.

Sofie was sat cross-legged on the floor when the Sister-Superior found her, staring distantly in thought. It took her a moment to notice that there was company, but when she did so she bolted up and bowed her head as courteously as she could.

"I have heard horrible rumours about you, my dear." Ventra's voice was a pained croak, and it sounded almost like it came from far away - perhaps so she could pretend none of this was real.

"Oh?" Sofie held both hands behind her neck and stretched contently. "And what have you heard? From who?"

"I have heard grave things... Indeed, the same as what Michael had told me; That what left that day died, and the sister who's return filled me with joy was a beast in a familiar skin."

The woman behind the bars paused and grinned widely. Two dagger-point fangs, framed by lips that were the same ruby-red as the eyes, shone brilliantly in the early morning light. Ventra was taken agasp, stepping back as her hairs stood on-end. "So it is true... You must be gone, I will get others to escort you out. You must not fight back, I beg of you!"

Sofie shook her head slowly. "I will not fight back. I don't intend to be a Beast, regardless of what you say." She swallowed. Remaining calm and collected was the best way of convincing both of them that she was not a monster, but seeing the figure she had looked up to now staring her down in horror was a blow she struggled to hide. "No, I would not want to cause a fright... these people have enough to look forward to as is."

Whether the superior did not register her, or simply ignored her, was unclear. She stepped closer to the bars, reaching through and taking Sofie's hand in hers like a mother. "Listen, the Mordheim library... Go there. I will give you the key. None of the sisterhood would dare defile such a place, for to tarnish their records would be a disservice to history should we fall. Go there, stay there, and begone when all is done..."

Sofie found herself nodding obediently like a schoolgirl. Some warmth came to her skin that had been vacant for a long time, and she took up the Superior's wrinkled hand and kissed it. She did not wait for her escorts to arrive, instead leaving through the main church hall and out onto the courtyard of her own accord.

By now, so many were the refugees and so dense were the tents and shelters that the chapel was surrounded by a veritable slum. Greasy, dirty people - women, children and men - went about their business with the same vacancy and sadness that Sofie had grown accustomed to since the comet struck. But there was something different now, in this facade of their old life, and it seemed like there was more hope in the air. With the arrival of the witch hunters and a contingent of imperial troops, this hope did not seem misplaced. So as to not cause a fright, the vampire covered her plate armour and head in robes such that only her eyes were visible, and she looked like a spy of Cathay or Nippon. Then she embarked on her journey to her new abode with solemn acceptance.

The Mordheim Library was as vast and dominant as she had remembered from her childhood excursions. It stood twice as tall as the rooftops about it, it's entrance a great rectangular oak door with all the attention to detail and majesty of a fortress gate. The walls, though blackened with smog and cracked with disrepair, retained something of their previous decoration; their trims were lined with crossed hammers and skulls of gold. In the door itself was engraved a large purple comet, it's comet splitting into two fine points like a snake's tongue. Though Sofie could not explain it, as she stood oblivious and awestruck as she had always been when she saw this place, the comet on the gate seemed more malicious somehow - It was as if this symbol of salvation and piety was now something else. Shaking her head and putting her lack of faith down to her curse, she pushed open the door and made her way inside.


	23. Chapter 23

The library itself was unbelievably vast, possessing of a great cylindrical chamber a hundred metres tall, segmented into layers of balconies connected by spiralling oak staircases embroidered with crimson. Each floor, Sofie found, was dedicated to a particular subject. The ground floor held bookcases stocked with great accounts of the history of the Empire and its wars with those around it, of great heroes and legends and tales. This was not by chance; the sisterhood had strong ties with this place before the cataclysm, and this arrangement was such that the ignorant and poor, those who could not explore this library in its fullest capacity and whose minds were most vulnerable, could only explore knowledge that was deemed safe.

As one ascended to each level in turn, the information on offer became more tabboo, more corrupting and more esoteric all the same; the books turned from detailing the Empire in itself to its allies in Bretonnia and the Dwarfs, then to the enigmatic Elves of Athel Loren and finally to all manners of evil from magic to greenskins and ogres.

The top level, however, was the only one locked away. It was hidden by a trapdoor opening a passageway to the very top of the library. In it, Sofie suspected, lay the most damnable of texts, scriptures and imagery - of the corrupting Chaos and Undead - which it was feared could taint weak minds with its presence were it freely available. Here was what the Vampire was looking for; the knowledge of her new self and her new abilities and nature. She wanted to do what nobody loyal to Sigmar ever could do, she figured; understand. A grin parted her lips as she relished in her new freedom, seeing the trapdoor in person. It had been reinforced with criss-crossing iron chains. They shone as if fresh from the smith, but were themselves tainted by what they locked away; already a layer of rust had begun to form prematurely, and it seemed to follow Sofie's touch along the chain like a mass of locusts. It was as if something was watching her. She tore the chain free with a whine.

Inside, the air was cold and menacing. A single table dominated the room, on which a dull beige tablecloth sat, criss-crossed with crimson like running blood. Several candles were arranged in two staggered lines that crossed at an odd 'X' shape. In the centre of this _X_ was a large book, opened onto a double-page as if it had been prepared for her. She sat down and swept away the dust with a thumb. A charming figure stared back at her, in a handsome black suit with shiny buttons. His hand clutched a cane pointed out at the reader and his mouth bore a dashing smile. He looked positively heroic - almost a man from some Bretonnian folk-story - save for the shimmering fangs which twinkled in his jaw. He was captioned as _Merovech, Cursed Duke of Mousillon - Sigmar curse him a thousand times!_

Soon enough Sofie was swept up in the intrigues of the book. It was a thrill of discovery which clutched her tightly and would not let go. All manner of foul creatures were described in this text - which she later found to be, to her assumption, some form of guide for Witch Hunters and common Huntsmen alike - and it was engrossing. Ghouls and foul hounds, zombies and wights were all described here. As the danger of each creature was revealed, she felt a rush of pleasure as she imagined that all of these could be her thralls. Was this what every Vampire felt? The rush of unkempt ambition nearly overwhelmed her, and she almost tore herself free of the book to rest when it again captivated her.

The words were changing.

She had been on a page concerning the horrors of the crypts - as they were known - and she recognised it as the creature which had so bested her in Ravenstock's service. But the figure on the page; a collossal brute dripping drool at the mouth and grisly remains from it's long fingers, had begun to morph. It began to grow thin, it's muscle falling away into the page and out of sight before Sofie's very eyes. It's teeth grew human, it's drooling maw closing into pursed red lips. It's eyes, savaged and blackened with undeath, began to twinkle brown and fall beneath a blue-white haze. This same haze took hold of the skin, which grew transparent like a ghost's.

 _Or a Banshee's_. The Vampire growled and nearly tore the book in two - being manipulated by a spirit was beneath her - when the text itself began to change form. It became a simple phrase, repeating over and over like the chants of a mad cultist, but in itself it was harmless: 'Go to the Sewers'.

It had occured to her how this entire room had the air of having been prepared in advance. The room was well-lit by candles, the two shelves which bracketed the table were well-ordered and free of any dirt or dust. This was no doubt the haunt's doing, and she would have answers one way or the other; so she would comply.

Climbinb down the stairway, she found that again she seemed to be as a guest for this ghost, this banshee; the stairwell down into the cellar - and therefore the sewers - had its walls lined with torches which burned a green-blue flame, unlike anything the Imperials would use. It was when Sofie appeared into the cellar itself, long since abandoned and dominated by cobwebs and broken furniture, that she found her answer. Two eyes, like those which took the place of the horror's, hovered in the darkness and looked into her's. They felt eerily familiar, which she would have put down to madness or chance until a voice triggered her memories.

"It is you again." A ghostly woman called with cheerfulness, "Your Sister-Superior did heed me afterall. Come, let us leave this wretched cellar, I am here with a warning." The owner of the eyes appeared in full, the same Banshee who she had thought dead for weeks now floated ahead of her. Sofie grinned and tried to hug the girl, falling through her and to the floor in her rush.

The banshee turned, its face cold and dead, but the echoing laugh which filled the chamber put the Vampire at ease. "Yes, hello - it is I. Now come on, Sister Sofie, Vampire of Sylvania. There really is no time to lose."


	24. Chapter 24

A/N - Sorry for the long break, 6th form work caught up with me. I will try to continue this semi-regularly from now on.

"You know he is coming?"

The Banshee bowed her head. "I do. He is, no doubt, coming for your old Sisters - for the wyrdstone."

"For the wyrdstone..." Sofie repeated to herself. She went over to the table which she had used as a study, taking a book from the top of the pile. She flicked through to one of the pages she had marked - as she had for every reference to the undead, and to her curse - and looked over the contents. "He did not seem much of a mage himself, why would he want it?"

"He is a pawn, Sister Sofie. A pawn for the Von Carsteins."

"Vlad."

Again the banshee nodded in that courteous way. "Why are you helping me? For all I know - and I assure you I now know well - you are trying to lure me into a trap."

"You will also no doubt know, Sister Sofie, much about my nature."

The Sister paused. She knew the Banshees were not there by choice - indeed, they were pawns - but could not recall them being aware of this, let alone hateful of the fact. The realisation hit her, and she couldn't help feel a touch of pain for the being that hovered in front of her. "Go on."

"I am helping you. I want you to free me from this, so that I may rest as Morr intended." The ghost's lips curled and a whimper echoed about the library. Sofie simply nodded. "But enough about me - you must go at once and tell your kind. You must kill Ravenstock."

"They will not talk to me, let alone believe me."

"Then you will have to do it yourself. You know full well the Von Carsteins cannot be allowed to win."

"I know. I just need a way to get in without being slain."

The Banshee bit her lip and glanced down towards the doors. "You will die if you try to face his host alone. He may be a fool - you must have noticed that much - but he is trained and dangerous. Stay here and learn. I will find a way for you to continue on your journey."

"Thank you, Banshee." Sofie smiled. The Banshee looked her in the eyes and smiled humbly. There was a look of desperation there. She remembered it from her days in the Sisterhood - the look of beggars and petty thieves whom entered the chapel for help.

She turned back to the pile of books, before checking for both of her swords and wiping them over from hilt to point with her hands. There was a cold breeze and a whistle as the Banshee passed out of sight. The double-doors closed with a groan.

Somewhere in the city, Little Lady was stumbling and staggering, as if his body was not his own. He was walking quietly down a a cobblestone road which was one chalk-white, but had gained a matted grey complexion like fur from where dust had begun to settle. There were tarps of sheepskin and leather spread about the road from some others who had stayed in this place, but there was no living thing in sight.

Little Lady continued to walk for another hour or so. All the while, his lips were parted in a wide and endless smile. His pupils were dilated and stared straight on as he entered the clearing of a crossroads, past the encampment. A tall pillar served as its centrepiece, but whatever statue it had bared was gone - only a great stone foot in a sandal remained - and around it lay piles of crystals, arranged in no clear order.

They were humming and glowing just so that a deep green light danced about the road with the passing of clouds. Little Lady was drawn towards them, still smiling. He knelt and lifted one of the crystals. There was a clanning of brass on brass like a small bell.

The handgunner's head fell limp, sweating and twitching and cupped in his hands, even as those lying in ambush came upon him.

"Looks too skinny fer a chaos boy." A voice spoke in the dark. Little Lady was deaf to them, and had now curled into a fetal position in the road, trembling.

"They'll get you. The ones from below will. They'll get you. The bell tolls." Little Lady turned his head and smiled at the strangers.

The ambushers passed wary glances and one of them came forward. He was of stocky build, but wore a butcher's apron padded over with wood and torn patches of clothing.

"Lookit him, it's an army-boy. In a right state, too. Take him back?"

"We got enough loons without addin' more." Another argued from out of sight.

"lookit his gun." The one closest to Little Lady waved a spiked club at the stock of the rifle which jutted up from behind the boy's shoulders. "He'd be useful.. an' we can't leave him here."

More mutterings passed between the group. Then two of the men grabbed the boy by the arms and lifted him to. He didn't know what they looked like, other than the one that had come closest. He didn't pay attention if they told their names. His senses were dulled by the creatures in the tunnels, the ones who would surely destroy everything.

As the four men disappeared from view, the shadow cast by a wayward cart on the other end of the courtyard morphed and bent as something scurried from it. With a skitter the fured beast approached the crystal trap, ran a hand wrapped in white cloth over the pile for rope and cut each in turn. It lifted one of the crystals from the pile and rubbed it between forefinger and thumb.

From its side came a scrawled note, written in deep blue ink over a letter from a 'Sir Leon die Rot'. It was messy and childlike with words sprewn across the page, but the message was clear:

Follow-hunt escapee to its den. Kill-slaughter all and take-take Warpstone.

Folding the letter quickly, its robed head darting all about it as if it were being followed, the figure let out a droning squeak. Soon enough more and more of the creatures emerged, not donned in black robe like the leader but in scruffy stitched overalls. They formed into a loose circle around their leader, following with beady eyes as it pointed to where Little Lady had been taken.

There were more low squeaks passed between the group, sharper than a cold wind, and then with a coldness the creatures spread and dispersed into the shadows.


	25. Chapter 25

In the center of the chamber, the great green crystal pulsed and hummed. A fleshy pink claw passed over it respectfully as the robed rat-thing rubbed its nuzzle, flicked the page of it's book and continued it's sermon - about the the importance of this rock which lay before the swarm, about the weakness of the things above and of the superiority of its kind over the rest. At this last message the horde broke into jeering, raising weapons and arms to the air so that the masses looked like one great wave reverberating from the warpstone block itself.

The creature revelled in their cries for a moment, before bringing them to stop as suddenly as they had broken out with a tap of its staff. Somewhere behind the warpstone block, there was the rolling of wheels over rock and through slush. A great wagon passed into sight - a crude construction of wood nailed on wood, covered in banners and enscribed with all manner of symbols. It held up a great bell of bronze. The whole chamber fell into deathly silence, the anticipation building slowly. The rat-sorceror looked up at the construction, and began the chant:

"The bell will toll!"

The command passed over the crowd of beasts who all took part - The bell will toll! The bell will toll!

"The bell will toll!" Little Lady cried, tearing violently at his bindings. His eyes were red from crying, and his mouth was held in a toothy, lopsided grin like some mischievous child.

The man opposite him laid a strip of paper across the desk and wrote something down. He rearranged his fur-brown hat and curled back the red feather that sat atop it. "No," he spoke to the guard who was overlooking the door, "These are not the words of a heretic. But they are still deeply troubling." He reached down and drew a pistol onto the table. The man at the door shuffled in place.

"We took you in, sir Witch Hunter - with the greatest of respects, I mean - you can't shoot me! He's not even one of our's! We found him out in the streets."

"Where did you find him?"

"In the old market quarters, Witch Hunter, sir. Cradling some rocks, the boys say. Covered in shit from the gutters, too. They say he smelled of rat piss."

The Witch Hunter nodded, and gestured to the door. When the man hestiated he simply tapped the arm of his chair, and the guard hurried outside. "Lock us in."

When he turned around, Little Lady's head was against his shoulder. He was biting desperately at his wrist bindings, to no avail. Spittle dripped down his cuirass. "What province are you from, boy?"

The boy looked up and squinted in thought. "The bell will toll." He mumbled at last.

"Forget the bell," at this, the boy whimpered and twitched and the witch hunter took note with detached curiosity. "Actually, no - where is the bell?"

Little Lady furrowed his brow. "Everywhere. Above and below - mostly below. They're all over, you see. All over."

"Who is?"

"They are. They'll get you. They'll get me too. Let me out!" The boy jumped up in his seat so that the desk shook.

"Who will?" The boy stopped. It was clear that he had not the faintest idea of what the Hunter was saying. It wasn't clear, though, just how much of his mind was left. The man stood up and held the pistol against the prisoner's temple. "I will end you as I should, boy, without a second's pause or a moment's guilt. Do you understand?"

The boy froze. Even in his state this universal fear of death was easily understood. He nodded hastily. His dribbling continued unabated.

"Can you hear me?" The boy nodded. His eyes looked about, wide and glossy. He followed the Witch Hunter as he lay the pistol on the table. "Do you understand me? Good. Tell me - what did you see?"

"Horrible beasts. Chittering, beady eyes. Had horrible fur, all over. Bet it was flea-ridden!"

"What would you say they looked like?" The Hunter was calmer now. He reached out and held the boy's hand through his bindings. Little Lady felt a weight lift from him. What a kind man! He had a sudden urge, a desire to tell everything he knew. The images came back to him.

"Rodents!" The boy felt the Witch Hunter's gaze.

"Rodents." He repeated stoicly. The boy nodded, twitching hysterically.

"Thank you, boy - What is your name? We will be spending much time in each other's company, you and I."

"Jasper. Jasper Unschuldig. I'm a... a state troop. Well.. a mercenary. But it's all gone now. I don't know why I'm here anymore."

"You are sent by Sigmar yourself, Jasper. Thank you. Together we will cleanse this place - of mutant, heretic, undead and"- The witch hunter stood and lingered there, until Little Lady could not help but look. From his pocket he had drawn a pair of black gloves, like that of a gravekeeper, and he rolled his hands over them as if warming them up-"These... rodents."

With that he turned and passed through the door, leaving the boy in the quiet and dark. He had already given in to a high-pitched whimpering.

He emerged into a large square room packed with tables at which refugees huddled and talked. At the sight of the Witch Hunter the volume gradually dropped until all that was left was a small murmur. This place had been a mansion for a local nobleman who, come the apocalypse, had fled Mordheim for safer pastures. Now it was the only safe haven, save the chapel which - scouts had reported - was locked down and guarded so that none could now enter.

The Witch Hunter slid his pistol into an inner pocket; it was best not to cause even more panic. He approached the makeshift bar; a set of desks drawn together and draped in clear green curtain-fabric, on which a variety of beverages were on display.

"How's the boy doin', hunter?" A voice came from behind the counter. It was a gruff old zweihander who appeared not days before. He had made his presence felt, tending to the bar, cleaning what weapons the survivors had and guarding the entrances come nightfall, but there was something off about him.

He was very pale, almost deathly, but his eyes were blue-green if a little distant. He seemed to be always short of breath.

"He's broken. I don't think he will last without help... but he is the best chance I have of getting into that chapel."

"Why d'ya need in, anyway?" The greatsword pulled a pint and slid it across the table, and the hunter drunk. It was sour and tasteless, and gave one the sense of dizziness that comes when falling from a great height.

"You don't need to know."

"Who else is gonna help you, Hunter? I can fight. None of these wretches can. I'll take you both to wherever you need'ta go."

"I need to warn them." He lent over the counter and whispered. "No messengers from East of here have come in for days. No tax collectors either. Why do you think that is?"

"Pfft, clogged with refugees?"

"No. If there were refugees you'd see the signs. I've been down the fastest road to Essen there is, and saw nothing - not a trace. Almost as if everyone is dead - or Undead. They are coming, no doubt, for the wyrdstone - the green rocks scattered about."

The Greatsword froze. He twitched uncomfortably and - curiously - seemed to not be breathing at all. Whatever troubled his newfound ally, the Hunter did not press it further.

"I need to get to the chapel. They will not stand a chance without preparation. All the wyrdstone must be destroyed."

"Fine." The Greatsword heaved and rubbed his eyes. "Undead it is, then. We'll leave in the morn... with the boy?"

"With the boy. The Sisterhood couldn't refuse a child and, even if they did, he's been underground. Maybe he can find a way in."

"Maybe? Not very Hunterly, is it?"

"It's the best we have." The Hunter hissed. He left a handful of Marks on the table and retreated upstairs for the night.


	26. Chapter 26

A/N - Sorry for the absence, computer's fixed now so I can get back into a schedule. I can try to make the chapters longer come summer if it's preferred. Enjoy. :)

The air was thick with a green haze now. All around the trio, the buildings had morphed and curved in on them like a snare that would, at any moment, close tightly around them. The Hunter was pacing, grumbling to himself; they had been travelling for a few hours now and were already lost.

Jasper was sat down on the cobblestones, flipping a coin into his hat for amusement. He had never looked so childlike. When he looked up and followed the Hunter's movements, his eyes were wide and clueless. This was the face of one who had seen too much. The hunter stroked his beard and nodded sternly at this assessment.

Then he turned to the Greatsword, that mysterious figure who had said nothing to him since the journey began. Occasionally, though, he would lean into Jasper's ear - and then the boy would stop shivering and panicking, and his eyes would gain a sharp focus.

He shook his head. There was no way they could remain in the open; if the bandits and heretics did not get them, the foul taint of the wyrdstone would. "Where are we going, boy? You said you knew..."

Before the boy could respond, the Hunter was advancing into the nearest building. A hole had been bust into the wall somehow, but the lack of debris on the other side meant that it was probably a creature rather than an explosive. Jasper followed, muttering to himself.

The Greatsword had already entered, without either of them noticing. He was walking about the room, running his hand across each surface as if a blind man trying to get his bearings. The Witch Hunter found a spot in a corner, squatted there against the wall and began observing the soldier's ritual intently.

Jasper took the chance to retreat upstairs. His head was buzzing, and he had been dizzy since his ordeal. A solemn ringing like a large iron bell filled his head with bursts of sound every few minutes, and so he could not think straight. He shoved open the door, advancing down the corridor until he found a room that looked to be a study overlooking the road.

He opened the door and immediately froze. The entire room had fallen away in some previous chaos, and the whole road was visible...

Or it would be, if not for the teeming mass of shambling bodies that swept across it, away from them. Backing away from the gap, Jasper squeaked back. "Guys! Sirs, come and see this!"

There were groans from downstairs after the fourth yell, and the thudding of heels against steps. Both figures were behind him now. The Greatsword was deathly silent.

"By Sigmar. I knew it." The Hunter broke into a smile that stunned Jasper like a slap across the face. "I knew it, it was Undead! They are here!"

The horde below - for it so thickly covered the street that only the odd cobblestone was visible here and there, and the air was thick with deep howls and moans - was an undead horde, hundreds strong. The bodies were of men, no doubt former residents of Mordheim. Some were state troops who had been garrisoned here before the fall, others citizens of all stripes and shapes and sizes, and others still mutated beyond all recognition and then risen again to serve some other force. If they knew of the fresh meat barely a dozen metres up from them, none of the creatures made known that fact, save the odd one here and there which stopped, stared and growled before being carried along by the wave of flesh or knocked and trampled underfoot.

The Hunter dropped back behind the pair. Jasper was about to turn around when another shot from the bell sent his head spinning. He fell to the ground, twitching. There were yells of shock as the two men hoisted him to his feet and lay him against the wall. Then the hunter knelt over the edge of the gap, looking up the road.

"There." He pointed far to the right, where the field of chimnneys and roofs rose in a gentle curve with the hill on which Mordheim was built, the tip of a spire could be seen twinkling. It was a needle on the horizon, covered by the haze and clouds and impossible to make out.

"There. Look, the Horde is moving this way, where else would they be going but-"

"The Chapel of the Sisters of Sigmar. Where all the fruits of this cataclysm are locked away." The Greatsword spoke grimly. The Witch Hunter stood aghast for a moment. His gaze pierced the man suspiciously.

"We must go there, we must reach it before these creatures do!" The hunter furrowed his brow and ran his hand over his hat irritably.

The Greatsword lifted his blade and motioned back to the staircase. "We cannot make it through that horde, but you're free to try, Hunter. Your boy's sewers can lead us there." He gazed at Jasper, who shivered. The man's eyes were black and vacant.

"Sewers? Oh!" He cried and shook his head frantically. "Not going back down there! Not with those beasts down there!"

The Hunter growled and pinned the boy against the wall, a hand grasping each shoulder. "The monsters up here are very real and very dangerous, boy. They are enough without you imagining things. Now take us."

"No!" The boy squealed. The hunter lifted his pistol into view. Jasper whimpered. "You're crazy for a hunter! Fine... fine! You want to die sir? Fine, sir. I'll take you."

There was quiet, save the groans of the shambling dead beneath them. The Greatsword peered over the side, to see if the commotion had disturbed any of them, but they carried on their way deeper into town. The trio headed back out from whence they had come, and Jasper took lead. At the nearest sewer grating they paused.

"Here. Think I know this bit - used to go straight to the market. Was an easy way to get food." The boy cursed to himself and continued quickly. "I can take you to the chapel, yeah. Should take a day at most - way faster than those shamblers can go anyhow."

The two men wrenched the grating from its holding, and Jasper led them underground. 


End file.
